You Will Find Perfect Happiness (In Bed)
by foojules
Summary: It's not a fortune cookie fortune - it's a series about Sybil and Tom, all set in and around their bed! Not necessarily canon compliant (especially later on) or in chronological order. Smut and spoilers abound.
1. Chapter 1: May 1919

_AN: We'll start with their first night, in their first bed. I'm sure the Bransons' wedding night has been done to death, but I'm getting to a conflict point in my other fic and wanted to write something happy to cheer myself up... so I'll just add mine to the pile._

* * *

May 1919

Sybil Branson sat tucked up in bed with an open book. She was not reading, but it seemed fitting that she should have something to do with her hands. She hadn't spent much time getting ready: just washed up and taken the pins out of her hair, letting it flow over her shoulders. She hadn't been sure what to wear, so she'd put on the nicer of her two nightgowns.

At present she was absorbed in taking the measure of her new bedroom. It had clearly been decorated by a man: which was to say, not decorated at all. Tom had been here for the past two weeks, since they'd leased the flat. With the help of her future sisters-in-law, Sybil had done much of the work of setting the place up, but she hadn't yet spent much time in here.

She'd been amused - if frustrated - at how scrupulously Tom observed the appearance of propriety. And it seemed there were always people around to look. Even in the moments alone they'd been able to arrange, she'd found him surprisingly unbending where her virtue was concerned. "We're going to be married in a month," she'd teased, or "three weeks," or "four days. It really doesn't matter at this point, don't you think?"

He disagreed. "I don't want you to feel like you're stuck here," he'd told her, even after she assured him for what seemed like the twentieth time that she couldn't imagine feeling that way, and anyway she'd probably been ruined in the eyes of everyone back in her old life the moment she stepped onto the train with him. So their private interviews would always end before any clothing was too disarranged. Stopping obviously gave Tom some difficulty, but he seemed to take a certain pleasure in it as well.

"Is this your revenge for making you wait all that time?" She'd asked him once, not altogether playfully. She was still breathing quite hard and her lips felt pleasantly raw; it was evening, and he needed to shave.

He'd grinned at her. "I never thought of it that way. Maybe it is."

And finally yesterday had come, along with Sybil's sisters, and today had come, with the dim, echoing church and the rite of marriage, the words and motions that Tom and Sybil had studied together the last few evenings. Mary and Edith in fluttering cream and lemon yellow, placing decorous kisses on Sybil's brow and cheeks through her veil, squeezing her hand with their gloved ones. They contrasted utterly with Tom's sisters, ebullient Kathleen and shy Orla, smiling diffidently in their serviceable Sunday best. Kathleen only a year older than Sybil, not even married two years and already with a second child on the way, but still sparking with energy for all that. She'd asked Sybil if there was anything she wanted to know, a few hours before Mary and Edith had arrived.

"What do I need to know?" Sybil had asked her.

"Well, you being a nurse, I suppose you have the basic idea," Kathleen replied, and then shot her a pointed look. "You do know how it works?" Sybil had nodded, her cheeks going pink. Kath was the person in her new family that she felt the easiest connection with, but she was suddenly tonguetied.

"Well, there'll be no surprises there then." Her future sister-in-law had patted her hand. "Sybil, love, there's nothing to fret about. Our Tom's a good man and he loves you, and he'll treat you well, and you will him." She'd smiled rather wickedly then, and added, "have fun."

After the service they'd moved to the rented hall for cake and punch: anything more was beyond them, even with a relatively small gathering. The men would go to the pub later, the women to someone's house, to gather in kitchen and parlor. Each group would talk of their own topics: politics and children, the difficulty of getting along in the world, and the foolishness of the couple whose joining they'd just witnessed. It'll never last, was the general consensus; But I'll not be the one to say it to those two, and didn't they look grand today, though.

Mary and Edith would not join the other women. By evening they were safely ensconced in the dining room of respectable friends of the Crawleys outside Dublin, having taken leave of Sybil with more kisses and entreaties to write often. "Mama says she'll be expecting to read all about the wedding by next week," Mary had told Sybil. Their father was not mentioned; nor was the possibility of another visit, on either side.

And now waiting was for the past, as the bedroom door opened. Tom walked in and smiled at her, though he didn't speak. He went over to the wardrobe and began changing for bed. Sybil kept her face averted, pretending to read, her eyes cutting over from under her lashes. After he'd finished his preparations he came over and sat half-reclined on top of the coverlet next to her.

She looked up to meet his dancing eyes. "Hello, my darling wife," he said. The look on his face was so _him _- adoring, alert, not a little devilish. Sybil laughed at the sight of it, blushing.

"Hello, my darling husband," she replied, setting aside her book.

He leaned over and gave her a kiss. "Do you know," he said, "this is the first night we'll sleep in our own bed together, as husband and wife."

"Yes."

"I know I'm just stating the obvious, but that makes me very happy."

She smiled. "Me as well."

He kissed her again, and they did not speak for several minutes. Eventually they moved for him to slip under the covers with her, for her to turn out the bedside lamp and slide down to lie on the pillow, for them to settle into an embrace, looking into one another's eyes by firelight. He stroked her hair.

"Don't be nervous," he told her. "If I do anything that's uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, I'll stop. All you have to do is say." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I just want to make you happy."

"I'm not nervous," she said. Then, amending: "not very."

Their lips met once again. His hand moved from Sybil's hair to her back, lightly stroking from her shoulder blades down to her lower back, then massaging her there. "Mmmm," she moaned into his mouth. The sound and the sensation of it quickened his blood, and he clasped her closer.

"Sybil... my love," he whispered into her ear. Slow and gentle, always slow and gentle, even with desire trying to spur him on. He'd never tire of kissing her: on her lips, on her cheeks, her throat, her earlobes. Her sweet, clean scent. They rolled over so that she lay on her back, with him hovering over her. The missionary position: but not yet. Not yet.

They moved together, more urgently now, letting small sounds escape from their throats. She gasped a little as he forgot himself, grinding his body against hers. "I'm sorry," he panted, pulling back, burying his face in the spot where her neck met her shoulder - trying to slow himself down.

"Don't apologise." She shrugged his head off of her shoulder and took his face in both her hands, reared up to kiss him deeply, bringing his head down towards hers. Her tongue ran along his upper lip, delicately seeking entry: familiar enough territory for them. He opened his mouth and met the tip of her tongue with his own. "Everything's fine," she murmured reassuringly, between kisses. "I'm fine."

He shifted again to lie half on his side, freeing his hand to stroke her face and hair once again, to travel slowly down her shoulder, her side, her hip. Under the coverlet, to the hem of her nightgown; back up, to the hinge of her legs.

Sybil's eyes snapped open. "What are you doing?"

He froze. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No-ooo. Just - what are you doing?"

Tom kissed her softly. "Making you happy." Slowly and gently, he began to move his hand again.

"Oh." And a minute later: "_Oh_."

There was a period of relative quiet, of concentration and wonder, and then she gasped, "Tom - wait, wait - " but for the first time that night, he did not obey her.

"Was that all right?" He asked, after a moment.

"Good God." She sat up. "I thought I was going to - I thought there was going to be an accident." The light from the fire was too dim and ruddy for him to see if she was blushing, but her gaze dropped and the corners of her lips curved upward. He reached up to caress her cheek; she caught his hand in both of hers, kissed it lightly.

Then, with one abrupt motion, she pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it onto the floor. "So, my darling husband," she said, smirking, "what's next?"

Tom blinked and, swallowing, tore his gaze back up to her face. "I can't tell you," he replied, with a smirk of his own, as he pulled her head down to his. "I'll have to show you."

-o-

Later, Sybil Branson lay with her head in the hollow of her husband's shoulder, her fingertips idly prancing on his chest and arm as he dozed. The fire was low and the room was getting chilly, and she shivered and pulled the comforter up over her shoulders. Tom sighed contentedly in his half-sleep, settling more deeply under the covers, running his hand over her forearm.

Funny, she thought, how one little act can hold so much importance. The difference between married and unmarried, near and remote, pure and unclean, in so many people's minds. But for all that it was just a tiny thing, the relative position of two bodies.

Still, she did feel different. She'd trusted him tonight to see her nakedness, to see what she looked and acted like without her veneer of control, and to continue to love and honor her just as well as before. And he'd trusted her with the same. She'd not expected him to be so passionate, considering the restraint he'd exercised in the last month. She smiled, thinking of it.

Sybil had told Kathleen the truth: before tonight, she'd known "how it worked" - at least in the physical sense. Her medical training, as well as her work experience and conversations with people who'd lived less sheltered lives, had given her that much information and more. But information and knowledge, she reflected, were two different things.

-o-

They woke in the grey dawn. Tom thought it must be because they were both so eager to begin the next chapter in their life together; at least he felt that way. Whatever the reason, neither of them felt like going back to sleep. Nor did they want to brave the early-morning chill outside the comforter, not yet. So they huddled together under the covers, talking, enjoying the warmth.

At length Sybil said they'd never get out of bed if _someone _didn't build up the fire, following that remark with a significant look at her husband. Tom sighed indulgently, plucked up his willpower and ventured out. Sybil propped her head up on her hand, the better to take in the view before he shrugged into his robe. He caught her looking and chuckled. Maybe they'd lie in a little longer.

Once the fire no longer required attention, Tom slipped back into bed and turned to his wife with a question in his eyes that she already recognized. She'd seen it before they married, of course, more than once. But never had it contained the hope of an immediate answer. Now she gave him one.

They moved slowly over each other's sleep-soft skin, exploring with hands, with lips, with arms and legs and feet. As the fire gradually increased the small flat's temperature, as their own exertions warmed them, they could emerge from the bedding and explore with their eyes as well. Last night Tom had been solicitous, almost solemn at times. Today, things were much more relaxed. They flirted with each other, giggled at their awkwardness, rolled and growled and nipped like puppies playing. They did not hurry.

After a time they joined together softly, the moment marked with a sigh from Sybil, a hushed moan from Tom, the beginning of a more regular rhythm. Sybil began to sense a building up of something like what had so surprised her last night, and unconsciously she intensified her movements. But the feeling remained elusive, receding if she chased it too assiduously or broke their rhythm. Tom's mouth on her neck, his hand on the side of her breast, coaxed it back. She started to move faster, he responded to match her, and presently she cried out, shuddering, her hands groping at his back.

He watched her face, arousal outstripping any reverence he felt, though later he would wonder for the hundredth time how he had gotten so lucky. Now he let go of control, moving as his body told him to. When he came Sybil hugged him to her, bringing him as close as she could. They did not let each other go for a while.

Finally she wriggled a bit and he lifted his head. "Was that all right?" She asked him impudently, and he laughed and kissed her.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2: August 1920

_AN: OK, so obviously this is very much AU. A brief orientation: The Bransons are in Dublin with the baby, so the flight-to-Downton plotline has not happened (yet). I'm putting their daughter's birth in mid-June, so she's about two months old here. Sybil and Tom did travel to England for Mary's and Edith's weddings. Everyone's alive, though Sybil was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia during her pregnancy and therefore spent the last part of it on bed rest. From what little I've read about the complication, it is only fatal in rare cases (or when a show needs some extra drama), so we'll just operate on the assumption that bed rest worked to bring down Sybil's blood pressure and everything ended up fine, hallelujah._

_On the choice of baby name: I opted not to go with one of Irish origin. From my Googling of some records naming Irish-born people of the time, it seemed like first names of English or other extraction were quite popular among the Irish (after all, "Tom" isn't exactly translated from the Gaelic). With Sybil being English I thought it made sense to go that way for their child's name. Emma means "universal."_

_And again: this story's not told in chronological order, so in future chapters we'll go back over time that's already passed._

* * *

August 1920

The thin cry roused Sybil from sleep instantly: despite her exhaustion, she was on constant high alert. With the regularity of a routine performed countless times in a short period she sat up, pushed back the covers, padded over to the cradle and lifted her daughter in her arms. Of course the baby was wet.

_I handle the input and you handle the output_ was their arrangement. But Tom looked so peaceful, the furrows that normally appeared between his eyebrows smoothed, his breathing slow and regular, and Sybil couldn't bring herself to shake him awake. Even in the throes of sleep deprivation, she could muster some compassion. So she changed the nappy and, having wrapped the blanket back around the small body, brought Emma into bed, lying on her side to nurse her. The baby suckled greedily, swallowing rhythmically, her delicate little eyelids lightly closed.

Sybil drifted, half dozing, and her mind turned back to the first few weeks, that crazy, fractured period when she never knew what time it was: the windows seemed as likely to be dark as light at any given time. At first Emma wouldn't latch on, and it was hell: the poor child's high-pitched, desperate wails, Tom's clenched jaw and the shadows under his eyes, Sybil hunched over in the chair, breasts full and aching, sobbing and begging Emma to _eat... for the love of God, please, please eat_.

Eventually they'd figured it out, with the help of Tom's mother. A few adjustments in position, a tickle of the baby's cheek, and Sybil's mother-in-law had actually _grabbed _her breast to _stuff _the nipple into Emma's tiny mouth as she quickly moved the child into place. No one would ever be able to tell Sybil _that _hadn't been mortifying. "This is no time for modesty, my girl," the older woman had said briskly, as Sybil's cheeks flamed. But she'd looked down to see Emma with her lips securely placed, sucking and swallowing contentedly, and a sweet rush of relief and love superseded her embarrassment. She'd thanked Tom's mother profusely, and then it was Mrs. Branson's turn to be embarrassed.

_Mrs. Branson_. Not _Mam_; certainly never _Martha_. Sybil usually avoided calling her mother-in-law anything at all, but the formal title was what she used when there was a need to address her. The woman was as different from Sybil's own mother as it was possible to be, and why not? They'd led completely different lives.

Sybil missed her mother, missed her terribly. She wished _so much_ that Mama could have been here to hold Emma in her first days of life, to kiss her tiny fingers and toes and marvel at the way she seemed to grow and change from hour to hour. Letters were no substitute, and in any case Sybil was usually too busy and tired to write more than the briefest of updates. She wondered when Emma would meet her maternal grandmother... and grandfather. The rift was supposedly healed, Tom accepted as one of the family, but it seemed that acceptance was not the same as embrace. And difficult as it was to imagine Mama in this flat, picturing Papa here was utterly impossible.

She rolled over to switch sides, moving Emma to the center of the bed and pushing the coverlet down to her and Tom's waists so it wouldn't cover the baby's head; she was glad it was a warm night. Emma nursed, mother and daughter dozing together. Just as Sybil was sliding into real sleep, the baby pulled back from the breast and began to fuss. Her brow furrowed and she mewled fretfully, legs and arms struggling against the tightly wrapped blanket.

Tom stirred at the noise and movement next to him, and at Sybil's groan of frustration. He had to fight his way out of sleep; these days doing that felt like digging himself out of a grave. A warm, comfortable, heavenly grave. _You can sleep when you're dead_, his mother had told him soon after Emma was born, and that was starting to sound almost pleasant.

He sat up in bed and lifted Emma to his shoulder, patting her back rhythmically. Her cries just got louder and more intense. Resignedly he scooted out of the bed to walk the floor with her. "'S'all right, sweetheart," Sybil croaked more than cooed, blindly putting out her hand to pat the baby's blanketed rump on Tom's next pass within her reach, but she was already falling back into unconsciousness.

Soon enough Emma burped and that, along with the motion, calmed her crying. Tom took her off his shoulder to cradle her in his arms. She was wide awake, regarding her father with solemn eyes. They were a dark blue, and Kath said they might yet change color, but he liked to think they'd stay the same as Sybil's. Emma's features were too unformed as yet to see any other family resemblances, but Tom's mother said that except for the eyebrows she didn't much look like he had as a baby. He wondered what Lady Grantham might tell them about how the infant Sybil had looked, if she were here.

Back and forth, back and forth Tom paced, rocking his daughter, humming a snatch of "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody." The organist had played it last time he and Sybil went to the pictures, just before the doctor had prescribed bed rest. How Sybil had hated that: having to leave the job, being dependent. She worried so about money. He would come home from work to find her propped up in bed, going over their small household accounts. But she'd also chafed at being served her meals, at having to ask for the simplest things.

"Honestly, it's like I never left Downton," Sybil had pouted in her more dejected moments. "I'm still being waited on hand and foot." Tom had pointed out that it was all quite necessary to the health of Sybil and the baby, and that she was hardly playing the languid aristocrat - she was actually doing very important work, growing their child. But that was small comfort when the weather was finally getting nice again, and he got to go out into the bustling city every day while she was stuck in this prison of a room.

His mother, to whom much of the daytime work of caring for Sybil fell, certainly hadn't made it any pleasanter. She'd come round from her belief that Sybil would run back to England at the first sign of trouble, leaving the wreckage of Tom's emotional and professional life in her wake. But although she had many fine qualities, Mam lacked the natural ability to make others comfortable: a more taciturn woman never drew breath. And poor Sybil was so cast down that she hadn't been able to make up the difference. Tom wished his mother and his wife could have a closer relationship, but he supposed that was about as likely as him being able to have a conversation with Lord Grantham without having to bite his tongue. _Tame revolutionary_, indeed.

Back and forth. Tom was surprised he hadn't worn a track on the floorboards in the last two months. Emma's eyelids drooped, rose, drooped again. He'd learned not to watch her too eagerly for signs of falling asleep, and definitely not to put her back in the cradle too early. That would be asking for another hour of screaming and rocking. A demanding mistress, was their Emma.

He glanced over at Sybil. Light was starting to leak around the edges of the draperies, and he could see better now than he'd been able to even minutes before. She'd rolled over and put her head under the pillow, and her back rose and fell regularly with her breath. He felt a sudden desire to see her face: they'd been scrambling so hard, it seemed like he hadn't really looked at her in months. There'd been the travel and the stress of handling the Crawleys. The planning meetings for this latest IRA operation had started up in earnest, bringing the necessity of finding excuses to give Sybil, the guilt of lying to her, even if it was just to keep her from being targeted. Keeping his head down, trying to avoid notice; Sybil always getting looks in the street for her accent. This in addition to the quotidian struggles of work and there never being quite enough money, and the low-grade strain of dealing with certain of his family members.

Of course, all of that had been blown out of the water by the diagnosis that came close after their return from Edith's failed wedding. The sham bargain of the "treatment": if Sybil stayed in bed for the next month, she and the baby would _probably _live. Never before in his life had he felt such raw panic as he had in that doctor's office. Tom was not usually a praying man, but he'd prayed hard and silently, riding the tram home with his wife's hand clutched tightly in his. _Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. Anything._

As if in response to Tom's wish, Sybil shifted in her sleep, pushing the pillow to the floor and turning her head toward him. Her partially opened lips were dry and cracked, her closed eyes shadowed purplish, her cheekbones more prominent than they'd been. The month on bed rest had robbed Sybil of her appetite, and though she was constantly ravenous since Emma's birth, their daughter was also a prodigious eater. None of it mattered: she was still so lovely.

Emma was asleep. Ever so gently, Tom eased her into the cradle, his heart nearly stopping when she sighed heavily and smacked her lips. She quieted again, though, and he tiptoed back to bed. There remained a good hour and a half before he had to be up to get ready for work. He crawled gratefully under the covers, fitted himself around his wife's body and closed his eyes as Sybil's hand sought his. Hands joined together, his heart beating against her back, the Bransons slept.


	3. Chapter 3: August 1919

_AN: Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed, followed and/or favorited! I'm really happy that you're enjoying it._

_And now, some Branson sexytimes (and suggestion of - gasp! future plot developments)._

* * *

August 1919

After living here nearly an entire summer, there was one thing Sybil could say about Dublin's weather: it rarely got uncomfortably hot. Today, however, was the exception that proved the rule. After a brief morning shower the sun had come out to steam the streets, and the temperature and humidity had risen steadily throughout the day. Now, even as the sun set, it remained sultry.

She'd been run off her feet at the hospital. The heat seemed to make people especially angry and accident-prone: there'd been injuries from motor crashes, fights, a streetcar wreck, and various other minor disasters, all in addition to the normal round. She'd come back to the flat after her shift and opened the windows (not that it did any good, as there was scarcely a breath of air to be had inside or out), had a quick bath and flopped on top of the bed in her robe, too tired to move. That was how Tom found her when he came home.

"Long day?" He inquired, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt and waistcoat. It was good to shed the constricting layers. His skin felt like it'd been swathed in oilcloth all day.

"You have no idea." Sybil did not move her arm from where it lay over her eyes.

Her husband smiled. "Poor you."

"And I've got to get up and do it all again tomorrow."

Tom groaned in sympathy, hung his suit in the wardrobe and climbed onto the bed in his underclothes to kiss her hello. This turned into another kiss, and another. "It's too hot," Sybil complained, but he persisted, shifting his attention from her lips over to a spot he liked just under her ear. "You can see that I'm trying to plan what to make for dinner?" A teasing note had entered her voice now, and she raised her chin so that he could more easily access the underside of her jawline.

"Let's go out. I don't think we need to heat up the flat any more than it already is, do you?"

"I was thinking just sandwiches. I was just going to get up and make them." She did not move, though, and he took the opportunity to undo the sash of her robe and put a hand inside it. She chuckled. "Are you ever not in the mood?"

"Yes," he replied. "Only I get _into _the mood so easily." His hand slid down and around to squeeze her, and he grinned and squeezed harder when she let out a little squeal. "Especially with you for a wife."

Now she moved her arm, to put it around his neck. "Flatterer." She drew him toward her.

After a few minutes he pulled back. "Sometimes," he murmured, "I'll be walking down the street or sitting at the office and I'll think about _this _-" he turned her hand over and lifted it to kiss the inner part of her perspiration-sheened wrist - "or _this _- " he ran his fingertips over the crease that divided her thigh and her torso, making her shiver - "and I just..." he made a low growling sound in the back of his throat, and his eyes flamed. Sybil thought she might melt into a puddle, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. She leaned forward and kissed him open-mouthed, their tongues touching. Together they divested Tom of his remaining clothes, discarded her robe onto the floor.

"I want to touch every part of you," Tom whispered, sliding his palm over the curve of her waist to settle on her hip. "Kiss every part." He moved his mouth down her throat, tonguing the hollow between her collarbones. He continued down, planting a line of kisses between her breasts and down her belly. "Taste every part." He looked up at her flushed face, then gently opened her legs and put his face between them.

The sensation of his kiss there, wet on wet, was unprecedented: so soft, yet it felt like his tongue was dancing on raw nerves. Sybil gasped, swore, thrust upward. "Yes, my darling, yes," Tom breathed, his hands anchoring her hips, feeling like he was about to let go himself. He loved finding new ways to stoke her. Sybil reached down to caress his hair, then had to stop herself from pulling it as his mouth found an especially sensitive spot. Her hand opened and closed, gathering up the sheet next to her.

He fumbled a little, gauging how intense he could be by her sounds and movements, reveling in her taste, the way she'd whimper and squirm when he circled his tongue in a certain way, or touched a certain place. Soon something deep within her rose to the surface, and she let out a shuddering cry and grasped his shoulders to bring him up and guide him inside her, moaning his name over and over as she spasmed around him. Tom felt himself beginning to unravel and moved to separate from her before he lost control completely, but Sybil wrapped her legs and arms around him more tightly, holding him inside. "It's all right," she whispered.

"Are you sure? What day - " He gritted his teeth. God, it was hard to be responsible sometimes. Especially right now.

"It's fine," she said. "We're fine."

He moved hard and fast then, mashing his mouth against her shoulder to stifle his own cries, and finally he collapsed on her, both of them slick with sweat and utterly wrung out.

They lay still for a while, and then Sybil said: "I love you. So very much."

He kissed the side of her neck. "And I love you," he said, "So very -" kissing her cheek - "very -" her forehead - "much." He rolled off her, their moist flesh clinging, and Sybil laughed lightly.

"We're sticking together. Literally."

"This is not typical, I hope you realize. Ireland's hardly ever this hot."

"I think we're handling it rather well."

"We _are _incredibly resourceful people."

Not resourceful as much as flexible, Sybil thought. They had to be easygoing, with both of them working and limited resources. The flat was always a wreck; meals were usually pulled together or bought in the pub or on the street; she'd cut her hair mainly to avoid having to do much with it. She occasionally felt a twinge of conscience at being such a rubbish homemaker. Not that Tom cared, or even seemed to notice most of the time. "So how was _your _day?" She asked, wanting to perform at least that good wife's duty.

"Busy. The RIC's on edge now since Smyth was killed - Collins' outfit is making it hot for them. So I've been looking into that for a story."

"Well, be careful." Sybil sighed. "I wish this could be done without killing. A lot of those men are just trying to do their jobs."

Tom chuckled mirthlessly. "You might not have as much sympathy if you knew what they're doing."

"Try me." It was an ongoing debate with them, how much Tom felt he should tell her of the information he dug up in the course of his work. Sybil couldn't help but love him for trying to shield her from ugliness, but there wasn't much point. It found its way to her easily enough at the hospital.

"Making arrests. Harassing people they think are operatives, or even just sympathizers." He paused. "People have been killed. We're in a war, Sybil."

"Like it or not." She sighed again and laid her hand on his chest, playing with the hair there. "Seems like we just got out of one and now we're in the middle of another."

"Well, it could all be avoided if your lot would just hand us back our country," Tom said, his tone lightening.

"_My_ lot!" Sybil laughed. "So I'm always to be answering for the sins of my countrymen."

Tom sobered at that. "I hope not." He thought of rumblings he'd heard about actions against Protestants and British nationals in the countryside. It wouldn't be her, though. She wasn't one of them anymore. He snapped back to the present. "You're practically an honorary Irishwoman. You've an Irish name now, after all."

"That's true." She rolled over to her side and he rolled with her, the two of them nestling together, the heat somehow not as bothersome now. Tom wrapped his arm around her, his palm lightly on her belly. He could still smell her on his lips, and noticing that made him stiffen a little. Maybe...

Sybil's words pulled him back from where his thoughts had been heading. "I just don't want to go back to treating men's bullet wounds and helping them learn to move around again after their legs have been amputated. I'll do it, of course. But I don't want to have to."

"Maybe it won't come to that." Tom moved his hand to her hair, stroking her head, the back of her neck.

"Fighting in the streets of Dublin, you mean?"

"Or any widespread fighting at all. It's mostly guerrilla actions now; there's still some hope for a peaceful settlement."

"I hope you're right." She yawned and closed her eyes. Soon her breathing lengthened and deepened, but Tom remained awake. He didn't really believe what he'd said about a peaceful resolution, though of course one could always hope. At this moment it didn't matter. He could lie here with his wife in his arms, satisfied and happy, and pretend that none of it would ever matter. Until tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4: November 1919

_AN: Thank you as always for the reviews, follows and favorites! Filling in some of the missing pieces here..._

* * *

November 1919

Tom opened his eyes to see bluish light filtering around the drapes. Reluctantly, his arm made an expedition from under the covers; he groped for his watch on the bedside table, shivering as the frigid air hit his skin. He brought the watch close enough to read: still early. For once.

He burrowed back under the comforter and rolled into the center of the bed toward his wife. Sybil was dead to the world, curled on her side facing away from him, breathing evenly. He spooned his body around her, enjoying her drowsy warmth. Maybe he'd be able to get back to sleep. He needed it.

After several minutes Tom realized it was no good; his brain had clicked into its daytime mode, cataloguing the tasks to be done that day, calling up necessary information. People he needed to talk to; a bill that must be paid. He moved his limbs, working up the willpower to leave his comfortable cave; he could build the fire and make some tea, anyway. Sybil stirred when he did, and he gave her a peck in the general vicinity of her ear. "Go back to sleep, love."

"Whutimezit?"

"Early. Plenty of time. Go back to sleep."

She gave a groan and a mighty stretch and rolled over to smile sleepily at him. She put her arm round his waist underneath the coverlet, rubbing his back.

"We could have breakfast," she suggested. "I could do a fry-up."

"Jesus Christ, no." The words came out before he thought. Sybil had gotten better in the kitchen over the past months; however, "better" was a relative term. Sometimes her cooking was even edible. Sybil shot him a withering glare, and Tom backtracked, smiling winningly: "Ah, there's no need for you to get up yet, darling. I can make us breakfast." He was a competent though plain cook; he'd once admitted to Sybil that during his employ at Downton it hadn't been a rare occurrence for him to have the same thing for dinner four or five nights running. After all, when one was anxious to get to a bit of reading, thinking about what to eat was just a waste of limited free time.

Sybil smiled back, satisfied with that. "I think tea and toast will do me fine," she said. "I'm not feeling very hungry." She sat up and pushed back the covers. "I'll build up the fire, though. Least I can do," she overruled when he started to protest. She shivered. "Times like this I rather miss having Daisy around." She swung her legs over the side and let herself down, wincing when her feet touched the icy floorboards, hurriedly shoving them into her slippers and wrapping her dressing gown around herself. "Ugh," she groaned, giving her head a little shake and bringing her hand up to her temple.

"You all right?"

"Mmm. I got dizzy for a second. I think I stood up too fast." She pattered into the front room and busied herself with the fire; in a few minutes she was back, shedding the dressing gown and practically levitating back into bed once her slippers were off.

Tom yelped when she brushed against him with her cold toes. "Arrgh! Don't put those things near me!"

"But I'm cold!" She cried plaintively, pressing her feet to his calves and reaching out for him with her hands as well. He caught them with his own before they could land anywhere too sensitive, and began to rub warmth back into them. He'd just have to grin and bear the feet for now, he supposed. Once her hands were warm again he eased one of her feet off his leg, massaging the arch with his thumb. "Mmm. That's lovely," she groaned.

"What've you got today?" He asked.

"Seven to seven. Can you manage dinner on your own?"

"'Course."

"How about you?"

"I've got to be at the Four Courts before nine. Trying to catch one of my sources, get him to do an interview on background at least." Tom was working on yet another story about people who had disappeared, people on whom there was officially no information. Like many of his articles, it would dance precariously on the line between legal and illegal. "Mr. Shea said yesterday I'm like a terrier with a rat," he said, with more than a little satisfaction. Coming from the city desk editor, this was high praise.

Sybil smiled. "You really love this job, don't you?"

"It beats languishing for years in a garage waiting for someone to make up her mind about your marriage proposal."

"Ouch!" She pushed at his chest playfully. "Well, I know how you like being good at things."

"I'm trying to be good at it. I really am." Sybil's heart swelled at how humble, yet hopeful, he sounded, and she stretched over to give him a kiss.

"You _are _good at it. Dedicated to telling the truth, whatever it may be."

"Hmph. If the censors would let us," her husband complained. He slipped out of bed to make the tea.

Sybil pulled the covers back up over her shoulders and lolled, taking a few moments to act like the lady she'd once been. She'd never for a minute regretted leaving Yorkshire, but if she were there right now, she thought, she probably wouldn't even be awake yet. There'd be a roaring fire in the room and it would be lovely and warm, and only after the sun was well up would she ring the bell for Anna to come help her dress. She'd go down to an English breakfast -

A wave of nausea suddenly overtook her at the thought of kippers and soft-boiled eggs, and Sybil was barely able to grab the chamber pot in time to catch the contents of her stomach. When she'd finished retching she slid the johnny back under the bed and lay back, disquieted.

Maybe it was just a stomach flu. No cause for alarm, she assured herself. Experimentally she sat up, breathing deeply through a milder bout. Now that she thought of it, she'd felt rather poorly for the past fortnight or more. Nothing serious: just a lack of energy and occasional dizziness, an "off" feeling.

Tom reentered the bedroom bearing the tea-tray. "Breakfast in bed for milady," he said, and Sybil rolled her eyes gently at him. She didn't mention the vomiting, though she was surprised he didn't smell it: she certainly could. Oh, God, the symptoms were just piling up. Nausea; malaise; increasingly acute sense of smell. She tried to think back to when her last period had been and couldn't remember one coming since it had started getting colder. She'd been so busy. September? Had it really been that long? Oh, God.

"You all right, love?" Tom asked, having climbed back into bed with her, carefully so as not to upset the tea. "You look a bit peaky." He regarded her with some concern. "Maybe you'd better stay home today."

Sybil smiled as brightly as she could. "Don't be ridiculous, darling, I'm perfectly all right." She tried a nibble of dry toast, a sip of tea. They went down all right, so she took a larger bite.

Tom still looked dubious but tucked into his breakfast with an appetite. He chattered volubly on various topics: a dinner invitation from one of his colleagues for that Friday, how they should spend their first Christmas together. Sybil heard little of it. "I don't suppose you'd want to go to Downton," he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. When even that failed to get a reaction he laid the back of his hand on her forehead and frowned, finding it cool. "Love, you're barely even here right now. I'm not letting you out of this bed today."

Her eyes, wide and dazed, fixed on his face. "I think I might be pregnant."

A spear of pure animal shock-it wouldn't have been inaccurate to call it terror-went through him, instantly followed by elation. "Truly?" he cried, bouncing up and grabbing her by the shoulders. "Do you really think so? - damn, I've spilt the bloody tea - " he turned toward the overturned teapot, then changed his mind and gathered up his wife in his arms, kissing her over and over.

"Well, I'm glad _you're _happy about it," Sybil remarked drily.

"How could I not be? My darling, what's the matter?" There were tears welling up in her eyes.

It wasn't _fair_. They'd talked about it; they'd _agreed _they wouldn't have children right away. But nature had other ideas, apparently. And here was her husband, so damned satisfied. He'd got what _he _wanted, Sybil thought nastily.

"Never mind," she snapped, slamming herself down into bed and rolling away from him. She lay on her side, furiously swallowing the lump in her throat, listening to him gather up the breakfast things and put the tray on the bedside table. Then he cozied up to her.

"Sybil." Good God, wouldn't he leave her alone? "_Sybillll_." His hand touched her shoulder and she slapped at it as if it were a fly.

She opened her mouth. "Just go to work!" She yelled. "Just -" and then she couldn't talk anymore because she was sobbing too hard.

Gently, Tom held his wife and made reassuring noises, and she let him. Finally the storm began to show signs of letting up.

"It's not fair," Sybil whined. "It sounds terribly childish, but that's all I can think."

"I know it's not how we planned it," Tom told her quietly, his lips to her ear. "It's not how we wanted it."

"It is what I wanted. Just _not yet_." She sniffled. "I'm sure I'll be perfectly happy once it's had a chance to sink in. What else is there to do, really?"

Tom kissed her ear and they lay quiet. After a moment he asked: "Do you remember us talking about a baby, not too long ago? What were the names we said?"

"Connor for a boy."

"Mm hmm."

"I don't think we'd decided on a girl's name."

"You had a whole list of them. We'd have to have an army of babies to use them all."

Sybil chuckled, feeling a bit better. "I'll have to see the doctor," she said. "To confirm it." But in her heart she knew: she just _knew_. It all fit.

"Of course." He held her tighter. "Sybil?"

"Mm hmm?"

"It's going to be grand. You'll see."


	5. Chapter 5: February 1920

_AN: Thank you all so, so much for the lovely reviews! I'm blushing over here, really. I'm so glad you're enjoying my writing and this little story._

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February 1920

Well. _This _was unexpected.

For Sybil, it seemed like the last few months had been consumed in getting from one day to the next, preferably with minimal retching. She was exhausted all the time; the only thing she wanted to eat was fried bread, and plenty of it; the smell of boiled cabbage made her want to run the other way. The smell of sewage on the street outside the hospital nauseated her, which was unfortunate, as she still had to report for duty each morning. More than once she'd been forced to quickly duck into an alley and add to the general filth.

She hadn't been able to keep her pregnancy secret at work for long, as a young, newly married nurse who was oddly fatigued and disappeared into the toilets every couple of hours tended to arouse suspicion in medical professionals. Sybil's workmates had been brilliant covering for her, and so far she hadn't been sacked. Dr Phelps had assured her that at some point she'd feel like herself again: in fact, she might even feel better than ever. Lately, thank God, it appeared that he was right.

However, it had not occurred to Sybil that "better than ever" would encompass... _that _aspect of herself.

She'd become aware of it one evening before bed last week, when she was already tucked up with a book while Tom undressed. She'd happened to glance over at him while he was bent over taking off his trousers and... well. She hadn't had those kinds of thoughts in quite some time. Her cheeks had gone pink.

I have a very handsome husband, she'd reflected. But Tom, unaware of the spark that had just been kindled, had simply put on his night clothes, gotten into bed and, after a chaste good-night kiss for his wife, fallen asleep in record time. He'd had a very long day and he was very tired; and in any case he'd become accustomed to the reality that these days any thought of amour was usually a non-starter.

Sybil had fallen asleep herself soon after, but not without a little bit of difficulty. Her dreams had been... interesting.

Circumstances over the next few days conspired to keep them apart. One day a streetcar crash kept Sybil at the hospital until well into the night. Tom had deadlines to meet. Abigail Leary from upstairs' son fell off a wall and sprained his ankle, and could Sybil take a look? Sybil was heartily glad that she had her energy back, because she didn't know how she could have borne it in her former state.

But in odd moments the feeling would still catch her by surprise, and she very much looked forward to doing something about it.

Back in autumn Granny had sent Sybil a cheque for her birthday, accompanied by a brief letter ordering her to spend it on something utterly frivolous. Sybil had rolled her eyes at Granny's impracticality, but a few days later she'd happened to see a ladies' wear catalog and an idea had occurred to her. A gift for her and Tom both. Sybil had placed the order, hoping Granny would never ask where her money had gone. It hadn't arrived until after Sybil had been laid low by her pregnancy, though, and they'd not had a chance to enjoy it.

She knew that at this point Tom wouldn't care if she came to him wearing a sack. He'd been wonderfully patient and understanding, never even giving her an inkling that he was frustrated, but she knew her husband and his appetites and the past months had doubtless been hard for him. This, she thought as she lifted the garment out of her bottom dresser drawer, would be an unequivocal message that the door was open. Sybil very much hoped he would run through it... maybe he'd been a little _too _patient and understanding.

A glimpse of herself in the mirror put any doubts at rest: she looked lovely, if she did think so herself. The negligee was the latest style, peach silk and lace - machine made, but who cared - and it set off Sybil's glowing skin and brunette curls perfectly. Fortunately, it was loose-fitting with an empire waist. Strategically placed panels of lace revealed just enough, she thought. Yes... he would like it.

Sybil was still admiring herself when Tom came in from the kitchen where he'd been having his bath, wrapped in his dressing gown. When he saw her he stopped in the act of towelling his hair dry. His ears turned red and an irrepressible grin spread across his face, and it made Sybil want to jump on him and tear the gown off.

"Am I to assume you're feeling better?" he asked, still smiling.

"You could say that," she replied, smiling back at him in the mirror. She turned and advanced on him slowly, stopping only when she was close enough to wind her arms around his neck. The towel dropped to the floor; their lips brushed against each other.

Tom put his hands on her shoulders and gently moved her arm's length away. "Let me look at you." His eyes moved over her, stopping at certain places, relishing the sight. Goodness, it was... arousing to be looked at like that. It was almost as if he were touching her in those spots where his gaze rested. Sybil's cheeks flushed and she felt a bit shaky; her heart, her breathing, sped up. "You're beautiful," he said seriously. She reached out and put her hand on his chest under the dressing gown, feeling his heart pound along with hers. He shivered.

"Do you like it?" She asked.

"Very much." His voice was low and husky and his eyes burned dark blue and did not leave her body, except to travel to her face.

"Have you looked long enough?" She teased.

He grinned back. "Never," he answered, but he reached a hand toward her breast, outlined in peach lace, and it was Sybil's turn to shiver. He stopped just before touching her, raising his eyebrow sardonically. "You _are _feeling better."

She drew a quivering breath. "You have no idea."

His eyes snapped and he laughed happily. "Well, we'll have to take full advantage, won't we?" She laughed too and he stepped forward to take her in his arms.

They kissed in a way that they had not kissed for some time. Sybil got lost in the feel of his lips, firm yet soft, his tongue stroking hers. His scent. It had changed since he stopped working with cars, but it was still Tom, clean and masculine. His cheek pressed against hers. His breath wafted into her ear and he raked his hands through her hair, starting from the back of her neck; the touch, along with his breath coming faster and harder, made her heart beat wildly. A thrill shot through her. Sybil suddenly wanted him _now _and at the same time she wanted to keep it slow, make it last.

She compromised by opening his dressing gown and nestling closer against his chest, pressing her breast against his fluttering heart and putting her arms around him under the gown, dragging her hands up and down his back. "Mmmm," he moaned, pulling her closer in. His hands caressed her back through the silk; he moved them up to grasp the straps of the negligee at her shoulders, to slide his fingers under them. She quivered. "Cold?" he asked, wrapping the dressing gown around them both.

"Not at all." She smiled up at him and pushed the gown away, off his shoulders, over his arms to fall in a heap on the floor. "I'm quite warm, as a matter of fact."

"I think you need to warm me up, then, as I seem to have lost my dressing gown." She set to the task and no more was said for a few moments. They soon found that they wanted to lie down. Once they did Tom's hand finally reached the destination it had sought earlier, ghosting over her nipple, making her moan. He cupped his warm hand around her breast. "They're bigger now," he said, with evident delight, and she laughed at him.

"That's not the fashion, according to the magazines," she said.

"Mmm. You think I care about fashion?" He bent his head and shifted the lace so he could take one nipple in his mouth, deliberately moving his thumb over the other. It was funny how a touch in one place could be felt everywhere else, Sybil thought distractedly. She was moving in a rather wanton manner and making noises to match and Tom was plainly excited by it. He stroked down over the roundness of her growing belly and under the negligee, finding the clasp between her legs and undoing it after a bit of fumbling. A low cry escaped her lips when he touched her most sensitive place; he moaned against her breast in answer. He circled his tongue around her nipple, circling his fingers as well, moving his hand quickly but with finesse and it was the work of a few moments before she was writhing against him, letting out loud uncouth moans and damn the neighbors, clutching his head against her bosom.

He seemed to have just whetted her appetite, though. He looked up at her, face flushed and eyes bright, and she could feel how aroused he was and she wanted him inside her _now now now_ and she told him so in a low desperate voice. He was quite happy to oblige. Together they guided him into her and she didn't know whether it was just that it had been so long, or if it was a difference that came with being pregnant, but her sensations were was so heightened that once they began moving together she was off again almost immediately. She didn't even notice the squeak of the bed as she pulled Tom deeper inside, breathing out his name.

"Sybil, oh my God," he panted, valiantly trying to keep himself in hand, but it was too much. She wouldn't let him slow down and soon he didn't even try, speeding up instead and then groaning convulsively with each thrust as he released into her.

"Jesus," he commented after a moment, surprise mingled with amusement in his tone. "I wasn't expecting that to happen tonight." He separated from her and smoothed the mussed silk back down over Sybil's belly with a little smile. "Looks as if _you _were."

"I may have thought of it a little ahead of time."

His smile widened. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you fighting fit again."

Her arms went around his neck and she pulled him closer. "Not as glad as _I_ am, darling."


	6. Chapter 6: December 1920

_AN: In this chapter I'm borrowing from canon again, namely the "flight from Ireland" plotline (except of course it's Sybil + baby who've followed Tom, rather than pregnant Sybil)._

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December 1920

Tom hadn't wanted them to hire the nurse. It wasn't what Sybil wanted, either: he could tell from the angle of her smile as she thanked her mother._ I do appreciate it, so much. But it's really not -_

"Nonsense," Lady Grantham had overruled. "You're both exhausted and if nothing else I'm going to see that you get some rest." Emma had been in their bed for six nights: Sybil wouldn't have her alone in the nursery, where they couldn't hear if she needed them. The baby had been sleeping badly since they left Dublin. His mother-in-law was right: they were exhausted, all three of them.

So a nurse had been engaged, Emma packed off to the nursery a storey away. They'd barely slept the first night she was gone, what with Sybil jumping at every sound, thinking it was the nurse come to get her for a feed. At daybreak Sybil had gone to the nursery and Emma was still asleep. Nurse Cook reported that she had lain like a little stone for ten hours.

So they had the bed to themselves again, but they were far from comfortable.

"I miss her," Sybil said wistfully, once they'd settled into bed on their third night alone.

Tom glanced up from his book, reached over and squeezed Sybil's arm gently. "You know, we can have her in here if you want her. We don't have to do things their way."

"I know." She looked like her thoughts were far away. Probably in the nursery.

Tom was only too familiar with the effect this place could have. It was so huge and grand it swallowed you up, dwarfed your dearly held values and made them seem small and petty. He would've thought Sybil, growing up with all this as her birthright, would be immune.

"I'm serious," he stressed. "We can have her cot moved. Or we could sleep closer. There are only what, five empty bedrooms on that corridor? Six?"

She smiled, but wanly. "I don't want to seem ungrateful. And the nurse is already here."

Now Tom wished he'd stood more firmly against it. They expected resistance from him at every turn anyway, so why hadn't he? Because he was worn out, he thought. Not just from lack of sleep in the past week, but from looking over his shoulder for months before that.

He knew it was foolish to complain, even to himself. They were lucky to have had Downton to run to. Others hadn't been so, and they were in police custody or on the run, scraping out an existence on the fringes. And with a child... yes, they were lucky. Lord Grantham had even intervened with the Home Secretary to ensure Tom wouldn't be arrested, as long as he stayed out of Ireland. Tom knew he should be grateful, but he thought they might as well have told him to leave Sybil and never see her again. It was only a matter of time before he would have to go home, and then what?

He moved his hand from Sybil's arm to her face, smoothing his thumb lightly over her cheekbone and trying to rid his mind of distressing thoughts. "I thought you posh people were supposed to want to stow your children out of sight and only see them for tea," he teased.

She pushed at him playfully. "Stop it. I think Mama was in the nursery as much as the nurse, when we were small," she said. "Of course, she was thought quite eccentric. I suppose I'm following in her footsteps." She smiled again, a real smile, and something inside Tom's chest loosened a bit.

"They seem to get along well," he remarked, "Emma and your mother."

"Oh, they're quite taken with each other." That was an understatement. Cora had spent half the afternoon yesterday in the nursery. When he'd come in just before teatime, Tom had been rather shocked at the sight of Lady Grantham actually sitting on a cushion on the floor, patiently offering Emma toy after toy and letting the baby crawl all over her lap and drool on her skirts. Even Sybil's father had warmed to the child quickly, dandling Emma on his knee and telling her in an unwontedly gentle tone that she looked just exactly like her mother had when she was a baby, yes she did. His Lordship had taken to visiting his granddaughter once or twice a day, though if Tom happened to come in while he was there he would soon remember that he had an important task elsewhere.

Tom supposed he preferred avoidance to his father-in-law's style of confrontation, which was long on insinuations that Tom had, as they'd all expected, ruined Sybil's life. Tom had sat back and taken it the night he'd arrived, rain-soaked and worried to distraction about Sybil and Emma making their own crossing. But that didn't mean he'd be able to let open hostility from Robert pass a second time: better not to provoke it. So now he was the Crawleys' tame revolutionary once again.

But it wasn't about him, he reminded himself. It wasn't about his pride or his ideals or even about Ireland. And if he had to choose between them, between his country and his family, there was no question which way he'd go.

"If there's a silver lining in all this, it's that Emma can know her grandparents," Tom said.

Sybil moved closer and laid her head on his chest, put her arm around him. He could feel her voice vibrating through him when she spoke. "I know you don't like having to stay here. And it's not as if Papa's made it especially easy for you either." Tom looked down at the top of her head, a bit startled at the way she'd picked up on the direction of his thoughts. But then she always seemed to know what he was thinking.

"I can deal with your father." Tom made his voice light. "But it is difficult to get used to visiting your own child," he admitted. "Half the time I'm in the nursery I feel like I'm in the way."

"So do I. Nanny is _terribly _competent." The nurse was one of those people who never said what she was thinking, but thought it very, very loudly. "Maybe we will get rid of her, once we get our bearings." She yawned and rolled over to turn off the light, then resumed her place nestled against him. She sighed contentedly, sleepily.

Tom settled down into the pillow and closed his eyes and stroked his wife's hair. Her breathing went soft and regular, but he couldn't sleep. He'd never been one to focus on the past, but his mind was full of the events of the last two weeks. Was that all it had been? It seemed like years. It was too quiet here, and his brain yammered more loudly to make up the difference.

It was just as well that they hadn't packed any bags ahead of time, since in the end they'd not been able to take anything from the flat. Tom had gotten tipped off at work and had to flee in the clothes he stood up in; Sybil and Emma had been dependent on their friends' kindness and resourcefulness, which thankfully was not lacking. It had begun with their downstairs neighbor intercepting Sybil before she could go up to the ransacked flat, and ended with Michael O'Dowd's wife pressing a valise and a thin roll of banknotes on her just before she set off for the docks with Emma in her arms. If Sybil had been anxious or fearful, she hadn't spoken of it to Tom. She hadn't talked much about the crossing at all, other than to say it was cold and damp and Emma had fussed incessantly, but they were here now.

But Sybil had always been good at hiding her feelings. He remembered how she'd behaved on the night that had precipitated all this. She'd resembled her eldest sister in her steely calm and unsparing focus on what their next move would be... and in her icy demeanor.

She'd thawed by the time she and Emma arrived at Downton. Carson had announced the motor coming up the drive and Tom quit the chilly drawing room like a shot, not caring what the others thought, though later he was glad they hadn't followed him out to see his tears. Sybil had cried too, but with relief this time, and they had held each other tightly until Emma, squeezed between them, began to squirm and mew in protest. Since then it seemed all had been forgiven. Sybil talked to Tom, she smiled at him, she caressed and kissed him. She did not give him the disconcerting flat-eyed stare she had on the night of the fire.

But they hadn't made love since then. _That _had been so fraught that Tom had been hesitant to approach her in that way since. She'd shown him a side of herself he hadn't seen before: unbending, ruthless, even. If he was honest, it had intimidated him. But if he was _truly _honest, it excited him too. As life calmed down and the time piled up, he occasionally found his mind turning to her hair jerking over her face, her hands on his wrists. There'd been little enough time for that sort of thing lately, he told himself. _But we always made time before_, another part of him whispered.

_I don't deserve this_, he'd said that night. And he still didn't feel as if he did, any of it. He'd pledged to _devote every waking minute to her happiness_; instead he'd got her back here, the one place she didn't want to be. Usurped by a bloody nursemaid. Safe, but not at home. So he would let her come to him, whenever she was ready.

Meanwhile, he lay awake.

-ooo-

Sybil opened her eyes to furry darkness. It was warm and still in the room, sounds muffled by thick carpets and bedding; it seemed even the wallpaper absorbed noise. She'd never noticed how quiet it was here until her first trip back after living in a thin-walled city flat, where at almost any hour one heard motor horns outside, pipes gurgling, people shouting in laughter or anger.

Now the loudest sound was Tom breathing next to her. He snored a little: he must be lying on his back, she thought. It was obviously still the middle of the night, as there was not a speck of light anywhere, and the disorienting blackness pressed on Sybil's eyes. She felt a sudden, ridiculous wave of anxiety: how silly, they were here and safe and everything was all right. But she still reached out blindly, wanting to put her hand on Tom, make sure he really was there. Her relief at feeling his solid chest through the cotton of his nightshirt made her smile at herself.

She'd never told him how frightened she'd been. On the boat she'd sat with Emma in her lap, head bowed under her scarf and hat. She'd been irrationally certain that any moment a heavy hand would descend on her shoulder, haul her to her feet and tear her child from her arms. She'd felt small and defenseless, emotions that were unfamiliar and deeply unpleasant.

Even worse than that, though, was her certainty that she would arrive at Downton and Tom would not be there. Pratt had picked them up at the station, and she could have kissed him when he'd told her Tom was at the house. Instead she'd kissed Tom, any remaining resentment at his deceit melted away by her gratitude that they were together and safe.

And of course that was a blessed relief. But the reality of their situation was just starting to sink in. If she'd known that Tom would end up an exile, would she still have insisted on him coming? Alone, without Sybil and Emma to worry about, he might have been able to evade arrest. Or he might be dead or worse, she reminded herself. There was no point in guilt, not now - but telling herself that didn't keep her from feeling it. But she thought of how it would be if she and Emma were here with Tom across the Irish sea and she gasped involuntarily in dismay: it would drive her mad.

She shivered and moved as close to him as she could, putting her arm over his body; she'd never get back to sleep tonight unless she could feel his warmth radiating through her and match her breath to his. She found his sleeping lips in the dark and kissed them. He stirred and made a questioning noise; she'd half woken him. "Shhh, darling," Sybil whispered. She smoothed her hand over his face and he caught it, bringing it to his lips. She made a small sound when he kissed her palm and then again, tracing its lifeline with his tongue, taking her thumb into his mouth. She leaned over and kissed him again and he responded, fully awake now; she was rolling on top of him, they were fumbling off clothing under the blankets and moving together, tasting each other's skin, her hair falling into his mouth.

They'd had it many times, this predawn love. Often enough they emerged from sleep to find each other. But it had never been so meditative, so full of yearning, as it was this time. The thick darkness heightened the four senses that remained: every breath magnified, every touch a jolt. Sybil felt Tom's heart beating into her chest, she could almost hear it through her own body as he pressed against her. Her name, whispered, seemed to echo through the house. His slow fingers playing on her face nearly brought tears to her eyes. His hand moved down her body, his foot stroked the arch of hers and her release came upon her in slow waves, diminishing only gradually. Moments later he wrapped his arms tightly around her and cried out softly, some of the tension of the past weeks leaving him.

They stayed like that for a little while. He stroked the back of her neck through her hair and brushed her cheek with his lips. "I love you" seemed such a thin, insufficient thing to say, but she murmured it into his ear anyway.

"I love _you_," he responded ardently, holding her tighter, and in his voice it was enough to fill her heart to overflowing.


	7. Chapter 7: September 1919

_AN: Thanks as always to everyone who has reviewed/followed/favorited this story and apologies for the delay in updates!_

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September 1919

It was difficult to count accurately in one's head, Sybil noticed, when one was being kissed rather passionately and somebody was trying to slide his hand up one's leg.

"We really should stop," she said regretfully, when she was able to get a breath. "I think... it's a risky time right now."

Tom removed his lips from her throat long enough to say: "But we don't have to do _that_."

"But we'll want to. Mmm. Will you _stop_?" She couldn't hold back a giggle as his tongue found a ticklish spot.

He took that as a sign that she wasn't _quite _serious, and continued on his chosen quest to separate his wife from her knickers. "There are plenty of other things we can do. As you know firsthand." He grinned wickedly and moved in again.

"_Tom_." Sybil was quite serious, as it turned out, and she pushed him away.

He flopped over onto his back next to her, finally acknowledging defeat. "You know, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to have happen," he said, a little testily. "Plenty of people are well on their way to having their first baby by this point."

Sybil thought that sounded like his mother's words in his mouth. "That's true. But I thought we agreed we would wait."

"So we did." Tom's brow furrowed, belying the assent in his words.

Good God, it was like she'd taken a sweet away from a child. A bit of gentle taunting would probably do more good than disapproval. "Poor baby," Sybil cooed, reaching over and trying to smooth the wrinkles of irritation from her husband's forehead. "So disappointed."

Apparently she'd miscalculated: that just made him scowl more fiercely.

She took back her hand and sighed. "Fine. If you're going to sulk, then I'll say good night." She turned off the bedside lamp and began punching her pillow into shape, with perhaps a little more energy than was necessary. Things would look better in the morning, she thought determinedly.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, each aware that the other was still awake.

Then Tom's voice sounded in the darkness. "How long do you want to wait?" Sybil held her breath. "Only I'm starting to feel - I'm just a little anxious to - to start our family."

Sybil considered reminding him that they hadn't even been married half a year yet. If she was honest, though, she had no specific time frame in mind. Whenever she thought of it, it was some nebulous "later," or "when we feel ready." Certainly nothing as concrete as a number of months or years. "I don't know, Tom." She rolled over on her side and reached for him, catching his cheek in her hand, the rasp of her palm against stubble. "I know that's not fair, making you wait for me again."

"Well, I did just spring this on you," Tom returned. "I suppose I was hoping you'd change your mind." He hesitated. "You do... you do still _want _to have children?"

"I do," Sybil said truthfully. "It's just - well, so much of it - the work, I mean - falls to the mother. Most of it, really. Look at Kathleen." Tom's sister had just given birth to a second son, and although her husband was a hard worker, it meant that he rarely came home except to eat and sleep. Kathleen took the division of labor in stride, but Sybil thought such a life would be arduous to say the least. "Once I'm a mother, I don't know that I'll have time for much else," she continued. "So you can see why I wouldn't want to rush right into it."

"It won't be like that with us." She must have made some skeptical noise. "Sybil, it won't. You know that I'll be right there with you, rocking it to sleep and changing nappies and... whatever else it is you do to take care of a baby."

She chuckled. "That's the thing, I don't know either. But I'm the woman, so I'm just magically supposed to know."

"I think that magic is called 'begging someone who's already had children for help.'" That made her laugh again. "And I'm sure Mam and Kath will give us more than we want. They've both as much as asked me when they can expect an announcement."

"I'm sure they have," Sybil replied drily. She'd been on the receiving end of some hints herself lately, and they had not been subtle. "You don't mind terribly, do you? Waiting?" His eyes shone faintly in the light coming in from the window, and she focused on them. "I do want to have children with you, very much. But I want to do... oh, so many other things first. And I want to just enjoy being married for a while. Don't you?"

"I do." He reached out to run his hand gently through her curls. "I'd also like to know what our child will look like."

"Oh, he'll probably have horns and a tail," Sybil quipped, "just like Uncle Elmer. The Crawley family guards its secrets well."

Tom laughed. "I wonder if we'll have a boy or a girl."

"One of each, of course."

"Just one of each?"

"Let's start with that and see how it goes. It sounds like rather a slog, traveling the world with six or eight." Sybil mentioned one of their air-castles flippantly, but she hoped Tom would take her underlying meaning.

"But the older ones look after the younger ones. That's how it is in large families," Tom told her.

If that was the case, she wondered how Tom had got through three younger siblings without ever changing a nappy. Poor Kathleen. "What a terrible childhood. Forced to raise children before you're half grown yourself."

He snorted. "Not everyone can hire a nurse, _m'lady_."

"Oh, stop that." She paused. "I'm sorry if I was insensitive. But it really is unfair, expecting that much of a child."

"Maybe so, but that's how things are for a lot of people."

"I don't want that for my daughter. I want her to be able to go to university, and work, and do whatever she wants to do."

Tom took Sybil's hand under the covers. "That's what I want as well."

"What do you think her name should be?"

He smiled. "We've got some time to think about it."

"What, you never have before?" She supposed not: little boys weren't given dolls, after all, no matter what size house they were born in. She wondered what Tom would say if she suggested giving one to a son of theirs, and grinned.

"Which names do you like?" he asked.

"Oh, for a girl, I've always loved the ones from Jane Austen. Catherine, Elizabeth. Emma. Elinor."

"Good English names," Tom commented, his tone playful.

"Hush. We can name our son something Irish. Will that make you happy?"

"All right, then. Let's see, there's Declan..."

"No."

"Connor?"

"Connor's nice. Strong." She tried it out. "'Connor Branson.'"

"I didn't know you put so much stock in masculine stereotypes," he teased.

"Well, I wouldn't want the poor boy to be knocked down at school every day because his name wasn't manly enough."

"Spoken like a true mother." He put his arm around her and she crept close to him, their foreheads touching. "Whenever we do have a child," Tom murmured, "It'll be wonderful."

"Of course it will. The most wonderful baby that ever lived." Sybil kissed him then. She meant it to be chaste, a prelude to sleep, but unaccountably her tongue slipped a little way out, just touching Tom's lips, and then his mouth opened to accept it, and in the way they often did, things escalated from there. Sybil wondered at how they could bring each other to this place so quickly, so easily, and thought that it was probably best that they had not known this during the long years of waiting during the war. It would have made it so much harder.

His lips warmed her mouth, chin, jawline, throat. She wanted to feel more of him, needed more of his warm skin against hers, and she pulled impatiently at the hem of his undershirt until it went up over his back and head, the sleeves getting caught up on his arms as they came off. Her hands smoothed down his shoulder blades, spanned the sides of his waist. She dragged her nails lightly up his back, and again, less lightly, when she heard him moan deep in his throat, and she put her mouth firmly on the spot his voice came from.

He ground himself against her, no longer shy or apologetic as he had been when they were new together. He knew she liked to see him wild, to see evidence of the power she had to make him lose control. It excited her, and for his part he liked her excited. She nipped at his skin lightly and gave a low laugh, then she shifted her knees up and farther apart to nestle him between her legs and thrust her hips back into him, slow and deliberate.

The nightgown was getting in the way. "Aren't you hot, darling?" Tom teased, caressing her taut nipple through the thin material.

"_Mmmm_. Yes, now that you mention it. Terribly hot."

"Let me help you." He reached to bring the nightgown up over her body, and she shimmied it off.

"Much better, thank you."

"Mmm. Indeed," he agreed, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look at her. She still got a bit bashful at that, he noticed. "You're so beautiful," he told her.

"You're rather handsome yourself," she said. "Did I ever tell you that was the first thing I ever thought about you?"

"Only twenty or thirty times."

"Well, it's true. We came out the front door and there you were, waiting to help us into the motor and I thought... _ohhh_." His soft tongue on her nipple caused her to lose track of what she had been saying. He took her breasts in his hands, buried his face in them and raised his head to smile at her, his teeth glinting.

"Did I ever tell you how much I love _this_?"

She laughed. "Only twenty or thirty times." Then she pulled him back down. She slid her hands down his back and inside his pajama bottoms to squeeze his bum. "Aren't _you _hot?"

"Oh, I am," he said, with a note in his voice that sent a thrill through her, and a moment later the pajama bottoms were on the floor. She reached between their bodies to take him in her hand.

"I believe you are at that," she murmured, stroking.

"God, Sybil," he breathed. It wasn't a comfortable position for him to maintain for long, holding himself up with his arms, and they soon rolled over so that he was on his back with Sybil on top of him; she felt breathless, her pulse throbbing in her head and in other places. They were pressed together, him between her legs, her slippery wet, and she moved with him, finding a rhythm. She kissed him and he responded eagerly, his mouth devouring hers, little moans escaping from both their throats. Waves of sensation rippled through her, emanating from wherever her body touched his.

Some part of her fevered mind told her that certainly it couldn't present much risk of pregnancy, just rubbing against each other like this. "Sybil..." Tom said, warningly. But his voice was hoarse and his hands gripped her hips, spurring her to move faster.

"It's all right," she told him. "We'll just do this." God, it felt good. For him too, she could tell. Soon, though, she started feeling that itch, the one that _had _to be scratched, and she ground against him harder and harder and then she was taking him inside her and he was too far gone to argue. She came in moments, her thrusts going wild and intense, and his own excitement caught up with him all at once and he barely pushed her off in time, spilling onto his stomach.

She got off the bed and padded over to the washstand to get him a towel, then swung back up to lie beside him. "Sorry about that," Tom said. "Things were... happening rather quickly."

"And I never even meant them to happen at all," Sybil said ruefully, but he could tell that she was not unhappy about it. She kissed his temple and then snuggled under his arm, dropping her head on his chest. "I had a letter from Mary today," she remarked after a little while.

"Oh?" Tom kept his eyes closed.

"You needn't sound so fascinated."

"I'm sure Lady Mary is waiting with bated breath to hear how I go on."

"She did ask after you, as it happens." This was technically true, though what Mary had actually asked - in the most oblique way possible - was whether Tom was proving himself able to keep his wife out of the poorhouse. Sybil was fairly sure that Mary believed they were a step away from destitution. "And you don't have to call her _Lady _Mary, not when you talk about her to me. She's your sister-in-law now."

"And anyone who reminded her of that too often would be taking his life in his hands, I'll bet." He heard his voice getting sharp and shifted the topic: "Any news of Mr. Bates?"

"Still waiting for the trial. They don't think it'll be for a few months yet."

"Poor devil." Bates had always struck Tom as an honest fellow, certainly not violent. But anyone could have hidden depths, he supposed.

"And poor Anna. Mary says she's been an absolute saint, but she's awfully cast down."

Tom plumbed his mind for another question to ask. "And the wedding plans? How are those coming?"

"She hardly mentions them. I wonder why she's marrying Sir Richard at all," Sybil mused. "Sometimes it seems as if she regrets ever meeting him."

"You don't ever regret meeting me, do you?" He didn't know what made him say that. But he did know that whatever he'd had to put up with back in England, Sybil had paid for it with trials of her own since their arrival here. She'd had to acclimate to a culture completely foreign to her in most ways; she'd experienced suspicion, if not outright hostility, from strangers and even some family and neighbors. To say nothing of losing the luxuries she'd grown up treating as necessities. She'd borne it with good grace and an adventurous spirit, but Tom wouldn't have begrudged her some feelings of nostalgia for her old life.

"Never." Sybil pushed at his chest playfully. "What a question. When you know very well that if I weren't here, I'd probably be in a drafty drawing room being courted by some fusty widower." She shuddered. "Knowing what I know now, I think I might rather have died of Spanish flu."

A roguish smile spread over his face. "But then you'd have died a virgin."

"That sounds pretty terrible as well. Knowing what I know now." Her tone was light, but when she lifted her head she regarded him solemnly. "Tom, I could never, ever regret marrying you. And not just because I wanted to get away. I hope you know that."

Her eyes were so wide and blue and earnest. They pinned him to the pillow. "I do," he answered.

"I just hope I never give you cause to regret marrying _me_," she told him, and laid her head back down. "I do love you so very much."

He ran his hand over her hair. "Not as much as I love you, my darling."

* * *

_AN #2: And so ends another chapter with Tom professing his love. Such a romantic, this guy. :) More drama to come, though!_


	8. Chapter 8: April 1921

_AN: Obviously not all of this chapter takes place in bed - sorry to break my own rules - but they do eventually make their way to one. Thanks for reading and reviewing!_

* * *

April 1921

Tom often got to feeling claustrophobic in the house, a feeling that had nothing to do with Downton's size. Even during the worst of winter, he'd wrap up warmly and ramble over the grounds. It was a lonesome occupation, but that suited him: it was remarkable how few opportunities he'd had since returning here to be alone with his thoughts. The time out from under that roof suited him as well. In the past few months he'd begun to think of Downton almost as a conscious entity... and not a benevolent one.

Now that the weather was nicer, he went for a walk nearly every day. Sybil was usually game to come along if he was in the mood for company. Today it had been a fine breezy afternoon, clouds tracking across the high blue sky, so they'd left Emma with Nanny and set out for some exercise.

They did not get far. They'd just passed into the patch of woods that backed up the garage when the fleecy white clouds spread and darkened and a peal of thunder heralded one of the current month's fabled showers. They just managed to get under the eaves of the chauffeur's cottage before the downpour started. Sybil peeped into the pane of glass set into the front door. "I hope Pratt's here!" she said, knocking, but there was no answer.

Tom shed his coat and brandished it between his wife and the rain. "He never moved in. Matthew said he wants to renovate the place before anyone lives here again. About time too; it always was infernally damp."

Sybil pressed herself against the door. "I suppose we're doomed to get wet, then." It was really coming down, and the narrow overhang wasn't near enough to keep them from getting splashed.

"Maybe not." Tom bounded out from under the eaves to lift up a stone at the side of the path. He returned victorious - and only slightly soaked - with a key in his hand, let them into the cottage, and closed the door behind them. The sound of the rain faded to a pleasant tattoo on the roof and the ground outside.

"It _is _rather damp in here." Sybil shivered. She looked around: the furniture hadn't even been moved out. "It doesn't look as if Matthew's made much progress."

"I'm sure he has other priorities," Tom said drily. A snug chauffeur's cottage wasn't exactly a big step on the way to a profitable estate, and Pratt was so diffident he'd probably sleep above the stables forever before making a peep out of turn. Tom laid aside his hat and coat and went over to the stove. "I don't think anyone's set foot in here since I left. There's still dry wood in the box."

"Well, for God's sake light a fire. My fingers are about to freeze off." Sybil removed her hat as well, but left her coat and gloves on.

Tom gave her a sharp look - which she missed, being absorbed in her inspection of the room - and retorted, "Right away, m'lady," which she did not.

She rolled her eyes, but gently. "Sorry." Her husband wasn't usually this sensitive; maybe being in the cottage was bringing back unpleasant memories. "I'll see if there's any tea," she offered, opening the pantry. It was bare. "I guess someone's been here after all."

"Just as well. It'd be two years old." Tom got the fire lit and stretched his hands out towards it. Soon warmth began to spread through the small space. He sat down at the table.

Sybil went over to the only other doorway in the cottage and peered into the bedroom. "There's still furniture in here, too," she observed. It wasn't much: just a washstand, a small wardrobe, and a narrow bed, stripped of sheets. But the room held a curious allure for her. It was the place where for years Tom had dressed and undressed, had slept, had dreamed: of her sometimes, without a doubt. It was so very different from the room where she had dreamed of him. A thought occurred to her, lighting her eyes with a wicked sparkle. "What if I'd shown up here one night?" She said. "Before we were married?"

Tom chuckled. "Shown up here," he repeated, as if that very scenario had never occurred to him.

"Yes. What would you have done?"

Beneath the table, Tom's foot began jiggling uncontrollably. "Patted you on the head and sent you back home, of course."

Sybil raised an eyebrow. "So you mean to tell me that if I'd burst in here and offered myself to you, that you'd have turned me away." Now she lowered her eyes, coloring a little and clasping her hands in front of her. "Branson - _Tom _- I've tried to stop thinking about you, but I just can't." Her voice was breathy, as if she'd been running; her gaze flicked up at his face repeatedly. Her eyelashes fluttered, her tongue peeped out to moisten her lips: all those chastely seductive mannerisms young ladies used to discreetly signal their interest. It was uncanny, how she could put on Lady Sybil Crawley like a hat.

He played along, rising and crossing the room to stand in front of her, close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. "But Lady Sybil," he said, deliberately broadening his accent, "it wouldn't be right."

She blushed more deeply - God knew what she was she thinking of to make _that _happen - and lowered her eyes again as if embarrassed. She'd never looked this virginal, even when she was a virgin. Anyhow, that aspect of her self had not figured in his attraction to her. Still, he found himself... beguiled.

She looked up at him again and, holding his gaze, began stripping off her gloves unhurriedly, a finger at a time. "I want to be with you," she said. "I don't care if it's right."

His eyes fastened on her hands as they revealed themselves. His mind went back to the time before Sybil had been his, when he'd existed from day to day on the joining of their gloved hands as he helped her into the motor, and once again the prospect of touching her uncovered skin took on the aura of the forbidden and became thrilling. As many times as he'd played a version of this scene in his head, Tom had never thought it would actually come to pass, and certainly not like this. What fun.

He took the gloves from her, tossing them onto the cottage's single armchair, and reached out for her hands. He traced his thumb across her palm; she shivered. "But your parents," Tom whispered, still unable to keep a smile completely off his face. "Your family."

Her lips twitched. A giggle threatened to bubble out, but she mastered it and widened her eyes, casting them down demurely and chewing her lower lip, playing the ingenue to the hilt. "I know," she murmured, "They'll be terribly upset." Her cheeks were pink.

Well, if she wanted to be seduced... Tom raised her cold hands to his lips. Her gaze came up with them; their eyes danced together as he kissed each knuckle. She broke character and grinned at him. "This is rather fun, isn't it."

"Mmm." He opened his lips a little, and Sybil gasped when she felt his warm tongue touch her skin.

"Tom..." her voice and eyes held a sweet urgency, and if Tom had had to pinpoint the moment that he truly began to channel his former self, this was it. Ah, Jesus. They both knew very well he'd not have turned her away, had she come to him back then. He pulled her to him roughly, and she gasped again: "Oh, my," she whispered. "Why, Mr. Branson."

"M'lady," Tom breathed. He unbuttoned her coat and it followed the gloves to the chair. Sybil wound her arms around his neck and, after searching his face, kissed him. It mimicked a first kiss quite well: hesitant but eager. Tom thought, as he had not for some time, of their actual first kiss: how soft he had anticipated her lips would be, how much softer they were. Their embraces that night had been relatively chaste, but he'd felt himself on fire.

Now he met Sybil's shyness with passion, opening her pliant mouth with his tongue. He pressed himself against her, feeling the familiar, pleasurable ache; she moaned, feeling it as well. They maneuvered into the small bedroom, where there was nowhere to sit down except the bed. Sybil's eyes were dark, her lips parted. "Did you ever... think of me here, darling?" She asked.

"Yes." More often he'd stopped himself: such fantasies were painful when he was convinced they'd never come true, and even when he'd been at his most frustrated it seemed disrespectful to make a dream Sybil do things that the real Sybil would not. But occasionally, after a few glasses of whiskey or a particularly close encounter, Tom had allowed her in.

Her voice lowered. "What did we do?"

"Lots of things." He removed his boots and then pulled her feet into his lap to take hers off, allowing his hands to play over her stocking-sheathed ankles, the balls of her feet. She pointed her toes luxuriantly as his thumbs stroked her arches. "I believe we had a rousing debate once about whether the Bolsheviks' policies concerning women's liberation were truly being put into practice," he teased. His hand wandered up under her skirt to caress her knee.

"Did we. And who won it?" She was positively vibrating, he noticed, and he wondered how long it would take her to make a move.

"You did, of course. Though you did fight...dirty."

"Ah! I'd like to know what I did that you considered unfair." She rose up on her knees and put her arms round him, combing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, bringing her hands around to undo his tie. Before long the tie and his waistcoat had gone, his shirt was open and her blouse was unbuttoned, coming untucked from her skirt. She wore a chemise and a loose brassiere underneath, but her nipples, stiff in the chill, could be seen straining against the fabric. Tom brushed his fingers over one of them and smiled when Sybil gasped; he slipped a hand underneath her brassiere and she pushed herself toward his touch, panting, her eyes heavy-lidded.

He'd lifted one breast free of the layers of fabric and was leaning over to take her nipple in his mouth when a dreary thought intruded on this pleasant activity. "Love... you don't have your... little 'friend,' do you?" he asked.

Sybil's chest rose and fell as she laughed. "Honestly, Tom. I don't carry it about with me. And you really mustn't call it that; it's awfully distracting."

"Ah yes. So much worse than 'cervical cap.'" Tom raised his eyebrow.

She made a face. "Point taken. Anyway, aren't we supposed to be preserving my virtue?" She gave him that demure look again, but there was a banked fire under the placid blue of her eyes. "Surely a more experienced man like you knows of some other ways we can please each other." She batted her eyelashes and cocked her head expectantly.

"Oh, I can think of several." His hand dropped to the fastening of her skirt. Sybil wondered if he would have been quite this cocksure if their little game had been real, if she had in fact come to Tom's bed when she was the earl's daughter and he the chauffeur. No, she did not think he would have been.

In the old days her version of the fantasy had been rather hazy, by virtue of her limited knowledge both of sex and of the chauffeur's cottage. She'd been here a handful of times during Tom's tenure as driver, but never for more than a few minutes. Certainly she'd never seen this room: Branson had always kept the door closed when she was here.

She had imagined him in _her _bed more than once. She vividly remembered the first time, the night they'd been talking of the Romanovs' assassination: she'd gone to bed thinking of what could have happened if she'd kissed him like she wanted to. Part of her had wished she'd done it, despite the certainty that this was exactly the kind of thing Mary had meant when she'd told Sybil not to do anything stupid. Lying in bed that night with Branson's hand lingering stubbornly on her hip, she hadn't been able to keep from conjuring him up. She'd never realized how closely she watched his hands while he worked until she imagined them touching her. She saw his blond head nestled between her breasts, him looking up at her with that half-smile he often wore, his blue gaze drinking in her face. Thinking of it had made a series of odd ticklish thrills ripple through her body: a compelling sensation, yet one that left her feeling unsettled and irritable.

And now she knew what it had all been about. It wasn't such a great mystery after all, and nothing to be ashamed of. She was glad, so glad, that her Tom had been the one to show her.

Time passed, during which more articles of clothing were pushed to the floor. Sybil had mostly dropped the maiden act, undoing Tom's trousers rather deftly for a neophyte, he thought. "Why, Lady Sybil, you've done this before," he said, and she chuckled. He lay back on the bed naked, the iron bedstead cold behind his head, and watched while she undid her garter belt and slowly rolled her stockings down her legs, her eyes fastened on his. He couldn't tear his gaze from her neat little waist, the triangular shadow of dark hair showing through the cream silk of her knickers. She joined him on the bare mattress and he warmed her goose-pimpled skin with his own. She made a small sound when his hand found its way up one leg and he murmured, "We don't have to be quiet out here," his fingers teasing more moans from her. "Make noise for me, my darling." Presently she was naked, but she no longer felt cold. His mouth between her legs, his tongue: they might have heard her at the house.

"Tom - oh, Tom, please -" she breathed, pulling him up close to her, wanting him, not thinking. And God, he ached for her. He chuckled at himself, thinking that this wasn't so different from how he'd felt a lot of the time in this room, before. He took a deep breath and made himself lie at her side instead.

"Your virtue, m'lady," he reminded her, playful.

"Oh, sod my virtue." But for all the times they'd tempted fate, this was not to be one of them. She reached over and encircled him with her hand, moving it up and down. But he began to notice how rough the mattress was underneath them, that the wall was stained with damp and her skin was all goosebumps again. His arousal drained from him.

Finally he shifted gently and told her, "It's all right. We can pick this up later." He got up, amused that even after all this time her instinct was to avert her eyes. "I'll get us a blanket." He opened the wardrobe: empty. They really needed to plan this sort of rendezvous more carefully. He imagined making an afternoon of it, drowsing between bouts. Next time, he promised himself.

Meanwhile she'd gone into the front room and returned with their coats. "A good nurse knows how to improvise," she said, lying back down and covering herself with them. "The rain's stopped. We can warm up a bit and then get dressed and go have a hot bath."

"That sounds grand." The wool was a bit scratchy but did the job. They lay curled up together, feeling pleasantly lazy.

Tom was about to suggest leaving when Sybil spoke. "Darling, have you thought any more about what Matthew said?"

Matthew had been left in the lurch by the sudden departure of Downton's longtime land agent, and with Robert's blessing had offered Tom the job. Tom had thought about it - had thought a great deal about it - but he had not come to any conclusions that he liked.

"Only I've spoken to Dr. Clarkson, and he said they could use a nurse in the cottage hospital. And Matthew seems to value your advice very much."

"Would a village hospital be interesting enough for you, after working in the city?" Tom asked. In Dublin Sybil had assisted in a variety of procedures, from setting broken bones to surgery, on a daily basis. Certainly the Downton clinic couldn't offer such a breadth of experience.

"Not as interesting as at home," Sybil admitted. Tom's heart warmed at her calling Dublin _home_. "But it's close by, and I'd be able to work more regular hours."

"And have as many hot baths as you want."

She tickled his ribs. "You can't tell me you don't enjoy them." They enjoyed them together fairly often, as a matter of fact. "Emma will have a cousin soon..."

"She has several in Ireland," Tom pointed out.

"Yes. But I'm sure Mary wants me to stay, even though she'd never say so for herself." Sybil took a breath. "And I still think it's good for Emma to be here, in peace and safety."

There was no peace or safety to be had in Ireland: that much was clear from the papers. Tom debated with himself whether to bring up his growing discontentment, the feeling that every day he stayed at Downton, every contribution he made to its survival, made him a bit less himself. But of course she couldn't relate: this had been her home. So he just said, "If we have to stay in England, I think it's best we make our own way, in our own home."

Sybil considered that. "Maybe you could get a job at one of the Yorkshire papers. Or a London one, like Edith."

"Maybe." But he doubted it. Edith was a novelty, the clever daughter of a prominent family writing columns for an editor who was decidedly keen on her. Whereas Tom was a known radical with less than two years' reporting experience. "Frankly, I'd be surprised if any respectable English paper would touch me."

"We'll figure something out." Sybil made her voice clear and strong. "There must be some way for us to make our own life."

"Even if it means we leave Downton?"

"Even if it means we leave." She reached over and took his hand. "I don't know why I'm so keen to stay here now, when two years ago all I wanted was to get away."

Peace and safety, Tom thought. He knew the flight from Ireland had frightened her much more than she let on. "Love, I think it would be best if I write to my brother in Liverpool. Maybe he needs a man in his garage, or he knows of someone looking for a driver."

"No!" Sybil shook her head vigorously. "No. We won't go backwards. I know you don't want to."

"But right now we're living on your parents' charity," Tom said.

"It's not charity when it's family."

"It is to me. Not even the clothes I wear are mine. Can you not understand how that is for me?"

She heard the pleading note in his voice and realized that she had not understood. Of course she knew what a blow to Tom's pride it must be, to sleep in her father's house and eat at his table after being made to feel he'd confirmed Papa's worst assumptions. But her fear of Tom's being imprisoned or worse had, in her mind, justified drastic measures. Now she wondered if she had been right to insist on staying. "I didn't think," she said. "But don't worry. We _will _find a way."

He had no doubt that she would try, and probably long past the point of reason. She was not one to give up. They were quiet for a few minutes, her head on his chest. Finally he said, "Love?"

"Mm?"

"What if I did have to work as a chauffeur again? Would you be ashamed of me?"

He sounded much too serious, Sybil thought. Again she tickled him, making him yelp. "How can you even ask that question? Tom, I could never in a million years be ashamed of you." She rolled over and propped herself up to look at him, their eyes an inch apart. "Never." With that, she kissed him.

Tom's anxiety about the future receded as Sybil pulled herself on top of him and her hair brushed his cheeks. He pulled Sybil closer; their tongues found each other, first caressing and then devouring. Lust slammed back into him so fiercely he groaned aloud. Her lips traveled down his neck, down his chest, her fingers delicately stroking the hair there. She swept her tongue over his nipple and down his belly and he began to get an idea of what she had in mind. The understanding radiated through his body, through stomach and arms and legs and cock, and he shivered down to his toes.

"Cold?" She smiled up at him, lingering just above... he shook his head and fidgeted, wanting, needing the anticipation to end but loving it at the same time. Finally she tasted him. She moved her tongue around and around, caressing more and more of him with each pass. He sighed.

"Sybil, Jesus."

She took him fully into her mouth then and he was lost in warm soft wetness, in the blue of her eyes when she glanced up at him, in the feel of her tongue shivering against an especially sensitive place. He reached down to brush a lock of hair out of her face. Tom loved being inside Sybil - _loved _it - but this was different, even more intimate somehow. It required a higher level of trust, on both their parts. The first few times her enthusiasm had outstripped her skill, of course, but they'd soon got past that. Sybil could bring him to a place he'd never touched, before her.

And how she enjoyed that power. He noticed the way she was undulating, saw that she had reached down and was touching herself, and that brought him very nearly to the edge; he could feel the vibration of her voice when she moaned. She sensed that he was close and began to move more quickly, taking him in more deeply. Tom closed his eyes and then opened them to watch her full lips on him and that was what took him over, the sweet wave filling him, hips nearly rising off the bed as he cried out in release. She took that into herself as well, keeping her mouth on him until he softened. The first time she'd finished him this way he'd warned her off, spurted onto his stomach; the time after that she'd gotten an impish smile in her eyes and refused to stop until he was done.

"_God_, I love you," he said fervently.

"You say that every time," she replied, moving up and pulling the coats over them again. "I can't imagine why."

"You're very funny."

"So do you feel better?"

"How could I not."

"Good." She put her arm over him. "Tom, it really will be all right. You'll see." He said nothing, not wanting to contradict her optimism. After a few minutes she swung her legs over the side of the bed and began rooting around in the pile of clothes on the floor, sorting out his from hers.

Before they left the room Sybil looked around, as if committing it to memory. "We should come here again before Matthew gets the work started," she said, smiling.

"I was thinking the same thing."

"I wonder if your uniform is still here somewhere."

"My uniform?"

She colored. "Er. It might be fun, one day, to pretend again. But with the jacket and cap and everything."

Indeed. "I wouldn't have been wearing them in here," he reminded her.

"What a shame. We shall have to go for a drive sometime."


	9. Chapter 9: December 1920

_AN: Apparently my penchant for angst has caught up with me. I don't think "perfect happiness" precludes some conflict now and then, though, or that either Tom or Sybil could be _perfectly _happy in a safe, boring life. _

_I know the plot point in canon that Sybil didn't know Tom was attending meetings was kind of controversial, but I've made the decision to keep a version of it in this story: she knows he's working in a general sense for independence, she knows he's going to meetings and writing pieces in support of the Republicans, but he has not made her aware of the extent of his involvement. Whether this is "in character" is debatable when so much during S3 seems not to have been for either of them. I do think it's plausible that Tom would want to protect Sybil as much as he could, even if his way of doing so doesn't show the best judgment on his part._

* * *

December 1920

He should have been home hours ago.

There'd been no indication that anything out of the ordinary was afoot that morning. Tom had given Sybil and Emma his customary goodbye kisses before heading to work; as usual Sybil's admonition to take care had followed him out, down the stairs and through the streets. At this point it was almost a superstition with her. As long as she warned him, as long as he promised to exercise caution, he would make it back home safely.

Mrs. Branson had come in the morning to watch Emma so that Sybil could go out and shop for their food for the next few days. After Sybil returned she'd made tea and she and her mother-in-law had it in the front room. They said what a fine blooming girl Emma was, and Martha had made some suggestions about childrearing that she no doubt considered helpful, and they'd talked of the approaching arrival of Kathleen's third child, beginning to grow heavy in her belly. They'd not brought up the sacking of Kathleen's husband, Patrick, in the wake of the transport workers' strike, or what it meant that there would soon be another mouth to feed in their house. Martha Branson would never mention money to Sybil, and she'd never speak of a baby being anything other than a blessing from God.

After a decent interval Mrs. Branson had taken her leave and Sybil and Emma had resumed their daily routine: lunch, a nap for the baby, a bit of housework for Sybil. Before the flat was anything like clean she'd sat down at the table with a medical text. She needed to keep her knowledge sharp if she was going to return to work, and she'd been thinking of it often lately. For one thing, they needed the money: food prices were through the roof. But as more and more violence and death encroached on their daily lives, Sybil felt an urge similar to the one she had during the Great War: she wanted to do something, anything, to make things better. Healers were needed more than ever now.

Emma had wakened, the sun descended and unconsciously Sybil had begun to listen for Tom's step on the stairs. She'd fed the baby: first trying porridge, most of which ended up in spatters on Emma's clothes and the floor; then settling into the rocking chair for a real feed. After that she'd washed the porridge out of the child's hair and put her on the kitchen floor while she prepared her and Tom's dinner. Emma was still at the point where one could plop her down in a spot and expect her to stay there, but she could sit up and was beginning to try - so diligently, and with such adorable expressions of frustration - to creep about.

Dinner ready, Sybil had placed Emma on her knee to bounce and chatter to her, glancing up at the clock every so often with mounting annoyance. He hadn't mentioned having anything to do after work tonight, she was sure of it. He knew she got fretful these days if he wasn't home before dark.

Finally she'd put the baby to bed, eaten as much of the cooled food as she could force down, and bathed and readied herself for sleep. Even though she knew that sleep would not come until - unless - Tom arrived home. Her annoyance was quickly turning to fear. Possibilities raced through her mind, each one worse than the last. She saw him sprawled in a gutter, rain washing the blood from his hair. She saw him seated at a table where a bare bulb threw a caustic glare against fresh bruises on his face.

Sybil tried to drown out these thoughts by going over each point of the contingency plan they'd made together: it was calming, like saying multiplication tables. When Tom had suggested it she'd wondered aloud if it were really necessary, and he'd looked at her like she was mad. "With some of the things I write?" he'd said. "It's a wonder I'm not in jail already." But she had not truly believed she would ever have to put it into action. With every minute that ticked by, it seemed increasingly likely that she would. I won't leave, she thought. Not until I know where he is. That wasn't part of it, to abandon him to whatever fate they had in store for him. She knew what he would tell her if he were here: take Emma and run. But she _wouldn't_.

She also knew that if the police happened by at this time of night, they'd expect her to be in bed. So she'd had two choices: fulfill their expectations, in the hope that they wouldn't have come for _her_, or flee. The merely risky option, or the irrevocable one. She'd chosen to don her nightgown, climb into bed, prop herself up on the pillows and open a book. Now she ran her eyes over the same paragraph again and again, listening for a footstep, a shout. She breathed in and out. Her hands did not shake.

When the lock finally clicked she almost screamed. She heard the front door swing open and his step, a little slower and heavier than usual, enter the flat. Her heart was still in her throat and she felt quite unable to move, so she waited. By the time he got to their bedroom she'd recovered enough to hiss: "Where were you?"

He began to undress, studying his waistcoat buttons like he'd forgotten how they worked. He looked more worn out than she'd ever seen him. After a moment he spoke, though he still wouldn't look at her. "Sybil - "

"Do you know, I was wondering if you were dead?" He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "I was trying to think which _police _station I'd have to go to, to collect your body. If there'd even be one to collect." Tears sprang to her eyes, but she brushed them away with the back of her hand. "I was thinking about what would happen to Emma if _I_ were arrested... deciding if I should try to run now or later!" She clutched the book still held in her hands. "And then you just _waltz _in here, looking like you've spent the night in the pub -"

"You know that's not where I was -"

She threw the book at him. Not really _at _him: she calculated to miss, and it hit the wall behind him, but he ducked in alarm. "Then where _were _you?" Her voice was low and venomous.

He sighed. His wife wasn't blind, and she certainly wasn't stupid, and he'd known a day would come when it wouldn't be enough for her to know the mere outlines of what he was up to. That day had come sooner than he expected. "I had a meeting. It just came up."

"A meeting." She obviously didn't believe him, or didn't believe he was telling the whole truth - which was accurate. "And you didn't feel it necessary that I know the particulars of your - " she waved her hands mockingly - "your great commitment to civic involvement?"

"Sybil. You know I've been covering the war. Political developments. You know I'm working for independence -"

"Obviously you've been working much harder than I've given you credit for," she retorted. "And I _don't _know! Because you don't tell me what you're doing! I have to guess!" A single tear escaped from her eye and slipped down her cheek. He stepped toward the bed, his hand held out, but she put hers up warningly. "Don't."

"Sybil," he said softly, his eyes pleading with her. "I didn't want you involved. I didn't want them to think they could get anything out of you, if something were to happen. I just wanted you and Emma to be safe."

"After all we've seen and heard, you really think ignorance would protect me?" She scoffed. "Tom, I thought you were smart."

He suddenly noticed how her speech had changed, after a year and a half here: the subtle differences in cadence and pronunciation from when she'd first arrived. She talked a bit more roughly now, and more musically. Her vowels had shortened; some of her "th"s came out as "t"s. She still sounded as English as Earl Grey's, of course, and she always would. But Ireland had taken up residence within her as well.

"Whatever I kept from you," he told her, "it was only because I couldn't bear to think of you getting hurt." Now he rushed forward to sit on the bed, to capture her hands and eyes with his. This time, she did not resist. "Sybil, it would kill me if anything happened to you."

"Do you think I feel any different?" She squeezed his hands, her anger dissipated, but her eyes dark and beseeching. "Tom, I need you to trust me. And not just so I know what's coming... I want to help." He started to shake his head, but she kept on. "I can... gather information. Send messages. Whatever's needed."

He leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. "We'll see," he whispered.

"Well, whatever happens, I can't bear being left in the dark. You have to let me know what's going on."

"Yes." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Sybil, I'm sorry I worried you. I am so sorry." As the tension left her, more tears began to fall. Sybil fought to get control of herself, to keep the shower from turning into a deluge, but she couldn't hold back a sob. And then another. "No, no, my darling," Tom whispered, gathering her in. Of course that broke her down completely, and tears filled Tom's eyes at the thought that he was the source of her misery.

"Please," he begged, stroking her hair, gently kissing her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, lips. Then her mouth opened under his and suddenly they were both breathing heavily, her trembling hands moving down his torso to untuck his shirt, her fingers working at his buttons. She ran her fingertips up his chest and he was immediately, achingly aroused, throwing his arms out to help her remove his shirt, groaning as she undid his trousers and then slipped her hand inside them. "I don't deserve this," he whispered into her ear.

She looked him in the eye, her own eyes still red-rimmed but dry. "What makes you think this is for you?" she asked coolly, though her voice still shook a little. "Now. Clothes off, please, and lie down."

He wondered what she was up to, but he obeyed. She climbed on top, straddling him, and he started to run his hands up under her nightgown. "No," she said, grasping his wrists and then moving her knees to pin his arms at his sides on the bed. She leaned forward and kissed him, her tongue lingeringly exploring his mouth. They kissed for a long while, slowly and sensuously, as if they were teaching themselves how again. After a time Tom began fidgeting. "What's the matter?" Sybil murmured, with a sadistic little laugh. "Getting impatient, are we?"

"What, you're going to torture me?" He smirked up at her, but grew uncertain when he found no answering twinkle in her eyes.

"Maybe a little. It's no more than you deserve." She shifted downward to grind herself against him, still holding his wrists with her hands. "Would you rather I made you sleep on the sofa?" No... no, he would not. She sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head. "No," she hissed when his hand twitched to touch her. Her hands returned to his arms, holding him down with a strength he hadn't known she had. Jesus Christ, he wanted her.

But she was not even close to finished, it seemed. She covered his body with hers, rubbing against him until he was panting and writhing. "Jesus, Sybil," he moaned.

"Oh, God," she breathed, as worked up as he was. She sat up again, grabbed his hand and thrust it between her legs, holding it there, moving herself against it, biting her lower lip. He reached up with his free hand to caress her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, and she began to shudder violently, her mouth opening. She collapsed forward and buried her face in the side of his neck; he felt more than heard her moaning. He couldn't stand it; he couldn't. But when he tried to put his arms around her she reared up and glared at him fiercely and he put them back down, unforgiven. And unsatisfied.

She finally took pity on him, after a fashion. Agonizingly slowly she lowered herself onto him. Even more slowly she began to move, up and down and around, inch by inch. Oh God, oh Jesus. Man wasn't meant for this. He thrust his hips into her involuntarily, afraid she'd get off and abandon him if he went too far. "Sybil," he begged, his voice ragged.

Her lips touched his ear. "Tell me you'll never lie to me again."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"I promise." She sucked on his earlobe, breathed into his ear. "I'll never lie to you... I'll never keep anything from you." He thought of stories he'd heard about interrogations: people who'd said anything, true or not, to make it stop. It's a good job she's on our side, he thought half-seriously. Roused to indignation, she was merciless.

Sybil chuckled lightly. "I believe you."

She laid her cheek against his and began to move faster, though still with delicious deliberateness. It didn't take long. Tom had been on the precipice for a while; all he needed was a little push. He heard the sounds he made from a distance, is if someone else were making them. His heart pounded in his temples; he wondered disjointedly if he were about to die. It would be worth it.

He did not die, but even after Sybil got up and walked over to the washstand he stayed flat on his back with his eyes shut. When he finally opened them he saw Sybil on her side, head propped up on her hand, studying him with an unreadable expression on her face. She was still naked as well. Tom was both surprised she hadn't pulled up the covers and aroused all over again, mentally at least, by how lush she looked.

One side of her mouth curved upward, though her eyes were deadly serious. "So," she said quietly, "this... _meeting_. What was it about?"

Tom closed his eyes briefly, getting his thoughts in a row. For a second he considered soft-pedaling; surely she didn't need to know _all _that had happened tonight. But no: he would keep his promise.

So he told her the truth. How it hadn't been a meeting, but an operation. How they'd fired a manor... after turning out the occupants, of course. Shock came into her eyes at that, but she said nothing. He told her how his heart had quailed at the sight of the family and their servants, weeping in their nightclothes as their home burned.

"I wondered why you smelled like smoke." Now Sybil shivered and reached down to pull the coverlet up over them. "And you were there to cover it? For the _Volunteer_?" She named the IRA paper for which he'd been moonlighting.

Tom flashed on the feel of linen under his fingers from when he'd grabbed the arm of one of the daughters - just a girl, ten or twelve - to keep her from running back in. She had been screaming something about a cat. She'd looked up at him white-eyed, like he was a monster come out of her nightmares to eat her.

"I wasn't just there to write about it," he admitted. "I was in on it from the beginning. Though I didn't know it was happening tonight, until just before."

Sybil inhaled. "You helped plan it."

"Yes." One corner of his mouth came up in a bitter half-smile. "Do you know, Sybil, I'm not sure I've got the stomach for revolution." He hadn't admitted this before, even to himself. But if _tonight _had been bad... and this business got a lot worse than just throwing people out of their houses.

"Well. We're in it now, though, aren't we?" _We_. "What are the chances they'll find out your part in this? Are they going to arrest you?" Her tone was dispassionate, as if she were asking about the likelihood of it raining tomorrow.

"I don't know," Tom admitted. "The family might be able to identify me. I don't think any of the lads would sell me out. Still, we'd better have our plans well laid."

"We already have a plan, remember?" Still that calm: her eyes looked far away, her mind clicking along behind them.

Their original scheme had Sybil and Emma staying with friends until things quieted down, possibly with his mother or sister after that, and Tom leaving Dublin to lay low for a while before continuing his work. At some point they would reunite. But now that it was real, Tom couldn't help but think that being on the run was no life for a child. An idea formed in his mind - one he knew that Sybil wouldn't like at all. He sat up and threw the covers off, went to the highboy and rooted through the drawer for his nightclothes. "Sybil," he said, "I think you should take Emma and go to England."

"No." The reply was swift and her tone brooked no argument. He argued anyway.

"It would only be for a little while, until it's safe for you to come back. Even if you had to leave Emma at Downton..."

"I'm not leaving you here. And I'm certainly not leaving Emma anywhere."

She could be so damned stubborn. He got back into bed and appealed to her stony profile. "I don't think you understand how serious this could be. We could both be arrested - "

"I've considered the possibility," she returned sharply. "I _will not_ leave Ireland without you."

Tom took a deep breath. There was only one way out of this, then. "We'll all go," he proposed. "If it looks like we need to."

"Tom! No," Sybil said, but she looked at him now, her eyes softening.

"We'd come back as soon as we could. But I want to make sure Emma's safe, and if I have to go back to England to do it, I will." He took Sybil's hand. "And I need to make sure _you're _safe. I meant what I said: I'd die if anything happened to you."

Sybil dropped her eyes. "I don't want you to exile yourself." She sighed. "I'm sorry I'm so difficult."

He kissed her forehead. "Sybil, my darling, you've given me more happiness than I ever thought I'd have. Don't ever be sorry. And maybe it won't come to that," he said, trying to sound more optimistic than he felt.

"But we must be prepared in case it does." Just then Emma began to fuss in the next room. They waited a few minutes, but the fussing turned into wailing. "She sounds hungry." Sybil rose, put on her dressing gown and switched off the light.

At the doorway she turned. "Go to sleep," she told him. "We'll make new plans tomorrow."

* * *

_AN #2: __I know I say this every chapter, but thank you so much to everyone who reads and, especially, comments. It really does brighten my day (and motivate me to write more) when I get an email that another review has come in!_

_I'm working on a cheerier chapter to post probably sometime next week! I think we'll all appreciate some sexy fluff after this Sunday's episode airs in the US._


	10. Chapter 10: May 1921

_AN: Happy AU weekend. :) And many thanks to babageneush/afraidnotscared for telling me the location of Aunt Rosamund's London house when I was too lazy to look it up. You should all go read her lovely _Waiting for the Day to Come_ - you won't be sorry!_

* * *

May 1921

"How would you like to come to London with me?"

The question had the air of a something Tom had been turning over in his mind all day, ever since the morning post had brought a letter from _The Daily Chronicle_ in answer to his employment enquiry. The editor, a Mr. Perris, wrote that of course he could not make any promises, but he was impressed with Tom's references and writing samples and Mr. Gregson had spoken very highly of him. He should like to speak with Mr. Branson in person on Tuesday next at ten o'clock, if it were convenient.

"We could make a holiday of it," Tom continued. "Stay in a hotel for a few days."

Her husband, suggesting an unnecessary expenditure? Now Sybil was completely floored. She raised her eyebrows at him in the mirror.

He smiled winningly from his place in bed. "Call it an anniversary trip. I'm sure your family would love having Emma to themselves for a bit."

"I've got an idea," Sybil said, slipping out of her dressing gown and climbing in beside him. "Why don't we go for a week and stay with Aunt Rosamund?"

Tom regarded her doubtfully. "Love, I'm not sure if you've picked up on this, but the whole point is to get _away _from your family."

"All right. But we will have to look in on her while we're there."

He groaned in mock dismay. "Is there no way I can talk you out of it?"

"She'll be miffed that we're not staying with her as it is. Besides, Cousin Rose is there and she's been begging me to come over and visit her since last autumn."

Tom chuckled. "She's been begging you to spring her from her gilded cage, you mean."

They both grinned at that: they'd been much entertained by Edith's letter describing the Great Dance Hall Caper of 1920. "Classic Rose," Sybil had said to Tom. "What should surprise them is if she _didn't _try to sneak off at the first opportunity." Edith had assured Sybil that no permanent damage had been done to Rose's reputation, which amused Sybil no end. "Because _that's _the thing _I_ care about the most," she'd laughed.

"Your Cousin Rose sounds like quite the firecracker," Tom had commented.

"You've no idea." Rose had spent a lot of time in Yorkshire when she and Sybil were children, and the two had practically grown up together. Sybil, being a few years older, had enjoyed the novelty of the big sister role, with Rose as the properly worshipful acolyte. As they matured into women they'd grown apart in their interests, but not in temperament or affection.

Now, with a trip to London imminent, Sybil found a plan forming in her mind. "That's exactly what we'll do," she said to Tom. "We'll take her out. Surely Aunt Rosamund can't object, not with a responsible married couple to act as chaperones." Her grin widened and took on a decidedly subversive cast.

Tom sighed. Apparently this was not to be the romantic getaway he had envisioned. But once Sybil got onto one of her altruistic schemes, there was no dissuading her.

Sybil noticed his disappointment and gave him a kiss. "Don't worry, darling," she told him. "We'll still have some time for ourselves." Then, with a sly smile, she leaned in again.

-ooo-

London, the Following Tuesday Night

Tom was exhausted. Perris had kept him waiting an hour, and the interview itself had taken two more hours and included a tour of the building: he hoped that was a good sign. Then the tube line had been shut down with an obstruction on the track, so he'd had to make his way back to the hotel by bus and on foot in a city where his experience consisted mainly of driving the Crawleys through the fashionable areas.

He and Sybil had discussed his interview over dinner, a quiet meal taken in a pub nearby. Tom honestly had no idea whether he'd hear back from the _Chronicle_: Perris had given nothing away, and based on what Tom had heard of recent doings at the paper, he had an idea that it wouldn't be the best fit. Still, he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers. Sybil was more optimistic, but then she always was. "They'd be fools not to hire you," she'd said proudly.

"I'll tell Mr. Perris my wife said so," Tom had teased. "That ought to sway him." She'd grinned and put her tongue out.

Her good mood had followed her back to the hotel room, and she fairly bounced into bed. "So," she said, "aren't you going to ask how my day went?"

He turned on his side to face her. "What, you mean it was different in any way from any other visit to your Aunt Rosamund?"

Sybil gave his chest a playful shove. "Yes. I managed to get Rose out of the house, and we had a lovely ramble about town." Aunt Rosamund had looked doubtful when Sybil suggested she and Rose go out after luncheon, but gave in when Sybil sighed at the dullness of an afternoon in town without any invitations. Sybil, of course, couldn't have cared less about being excluded from the customary round of visits, but she'd chosen her words with calculation. She knew Aunt Rosamund pitied her for being excommunicated from Society, and could not in good conscience refuse to make her exile a little pleasanter.

"Shopping, that sort of thing?"

"Not just shopping." Though Sybil did not mention the amount of money Rose had managed to spend in a couple of hours in Oxford Street. Tom already thought she was featherheaded: sweet, but incurably superficial. "We went walking along the Serpentine and we found a dear little cafe." She'd saved the best for last. "And we're going out with her tomorrow evening."

Tom suppressed a groan. "Love, you do know that we're only here another two nights. And I can barely keep my eyes open right now, so you're getting nothing out of me tonight."

His wife's eyes sparkled. "We're going dancing. Rose promised you'll like it." She rubbed his shoulder: a conciliatory touch. "Please, Tom, she's been so bored. And it'll be fun!"

Her excitement was what won him over. Sybil obviously wanted to go dancing for herself as much as for her cousin. And if Sybil said something would be fun, then by God, it would be. Tom gave in with a lopsided smile. "My darling, I can think of nothing I'd rather do tomorrow night than chaperone your cousin to the dance hall."

"That's what I like to hear." She gave him a kiss, turned out the light and lay back down facing away from him, grasping his hand to pull his arm close around her.

-ooo-

The Next Night

Rose had made it back to Aunt Rosamund's house unscathed, but not because of any action on Tom and Sybil's parts. It had to be said that they'd quite fallen down on the job: if anyone had played the chaperone that night, it was Rose.

They'd been dancing in Ireland, but between the ramping up of the war and the necessity of securing a baby-sitter for Emma, recently their jaunts had been few. And the music tonight had been completely different from the Irish music of the Dublin halls. Jazz was all syncopated rhythms, trumpets and saxophones like women's voices mourning for a lost love or rejoicing in a new one, more sensual than anything Sybil had ever heard. And the dances! They seemed designed to make the women's skirts fly around their calves; to raise a sheen of sweat on foreheads and bare arms, to tousle hair so that you looked like you'd been doing more than dancing all night.

Sybil had hung back at first, feeling uncharacteristically shy. She knew some of the steps, but she'd been so out of things she felt like an old fogey, never mind that many of the dancers were around her age. Tom, always one to wade right in, had let Rose take him out for a number. Then he'd returned and dragged Sybil out with him, and after a few cocktails she'd forgotten that she'd ever been uncomfortable. It had been great fun. Men had started to cut in on Tom - she must have danced with ten of them - but it was all in good fun, he just took her back for the next dance. A few girls had even cut in on Sybil. They were much more forward nowadays. Women's rights might begin at home, Sybil thought, but they'd made their way into the nightclubs quickly enough.

Seeing her husband dance with other women, watching their appreciative eyes on him, the way they allowed their hands to linger just a bit longer than necessary... Sybil felt that she should have been jealous, but instead it inflamed her in an entirely different way. The liquor worked on her too, making her feel loose and adventurous: she'd probably had too much, but what did it matter when all she wanted to do was laugh? Well... that was not _all _she wanted to do. She'd felt rather sorry for those girls, really. They wouldn't get to go home with Tom.

When she'd danced with him again she'd found that his state of mind was much the same as hers. He'd held her much closer than he needed to; by the end of the night he was practically pawing her in front of the whole room, but the light was dim and she was tight and anyway everyone else was doing it too. "Just wait 'til I get you back to our room, my love," he'd murmured into her ear, and it had sent such a rush of feeling through her that she thought he could have hiked up her skirt and had her right there and she wouldn't have stopped him.

In the end Rose had come up to them and pouted, "Hadn't we better be leaving?" while as much as tapping her foot. She was in a huff: the man with whom she'd been dancing most of the night had gone off with some other girl. So they'd put her into a taxi to Eaton Square and caught another for themselves, sitting close together on the seat, Tom's hands roaming. It took all of Sybil's considerably impaired self-control not to let out a squeal, but whenever she glanced over at him he looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Once they'd gotten to their hotel they'd stumbled giggling up the stairs and down the corridor, nearly running into an older man going to the loo in his dressing gown. He glowered after them, muttering disapprovingly.

As soon as the door shut behind them Tom flattened her against it, his mouth hard on her neck, hands moving down her sides to the hem of her dress, dragging it upward. The door handle dug into Sybil's hip, but she didn't care. His hands kept pulling at her skirt, looking for purchase on the skin above her stocking tops and finally found it, filling themselves, kneading her thighs. He pushed himself closer to her and let out what could only be described as a low growl. "All night I've been thinking about this," he said. "I've just been wanting to..." he shook his head, smiling.

Sybil could feel very well what he'd been wanting to do. Her arms went around him, she drew him even closer and, quite deliberately, thrust into him. He groaned and her mouth came down sloppily on his and they moved against each other, his hands busy under her dress, pulling up on her teddy until she heard the muted _snap _of garter clips letting go, felt her stockings slip down to sag around her calves. He pulled up harder and the fabric rubbed wet between her legs. She gasped, suddenly unable to get a breath: right then she wanted him to rip everything off her, all of it, and make love to her on the floor, or on the writing desk, or there against the door. But saying would take so much longer than doing. She kissed him again hungrily, trusting that that would convey more than words could.

His hands went to the backs of her thighs and she felt herself being lifted, braced against the door by Tom's body. She wound her legs around him and whispered, "You've read my mind," which got a low chuckle out of him. He lowered his head, his lips drifting down her throat toward her neckline, hot on her skin. "I want you," she breathed. He chuckled again and bore her quickly over to the bed. The springs complained loudly when he threw her down on it: they hadn't shelled out for the nicest of hotels. It occurred to Sybil that the walls were probably quite thin, but she was too tipsy and aroused for it to matter.

Clothes were too much to deal with for either of them. Sybil's dress migrated further and further up under her arms as Tom's hands moved over her. He spent a minute or two fumbling with the clasps of her teddy before he muttered, "Feck it," and tore the crotch open with a jerk, pushing the garment up around her waist along with the dress. Tom's tie came off easily enough, but his waistcoat was still on one arm and his shirt only half unbuttoned by the time Sybil turned her attention to his lower half. He ended up with his trousers crumpled around his ankles. Usually they liked to face each other during lovemaking, but tonight he bent her over the bed in front of him and the feel of his hands rough on her hips, his hardness against her arse, made her wild. He slipped a hand between her legs, murmuring into her ear how wet she was, how he could hardly stand not being inside her. "Do you want it like this?" he asked.

She whimpered as his fingers moved forward to circle her clitoris. "Yes." she said. "Yes." She turned her head back, straining to meet his lips with her own. "I want you to _screw _me." Her words sent a frisson through them both. He moved into her and then exhaled sharply, stilling for a moment. She pushed back against him, taking even more of him in, and if he hadn't been very nearly drunk he would have come undone at once. As it was he knew he couldn't last long, not looking at her before him like this. At first he held back - he didn't want to hurt her - but she cried _harder, faster_ and soon he was ramming into her, deeper with each thrust, and then she squirmed and cried _Oh, Jesus, Tom_, and he plastered himself to her back, laying his head on her shoulder, biting the insides of his cheeks to try and stifle his moans.

After a few moments he began to laugh. It hadn't been twenty minutes since they came in the door. Now that the pressure had been released, their desperate groping hunger for one another seemed rather droll.

Sybil started laughing too. "Good lord," she said, muffled by the coverlet. "What was _in _those drinks?"

"I don't know. Love potion?" Tom tried to stop, but laughter kept bubbling up.

"Lust potion, more like," Sybil said, sending her husband into another fit of hilarity. He clasped his arms tightly round her and kissed her ear. She let out a sigh, which prompted him to wonder if that was a sound of satisfaction or... otherwise. The former didn't seem possible, given how quickly things had gone off.

"Did you..."

She took a second to realize what he meant, and tittered once she did. "God, Tom, yes. I should think it would've been obvious."

"Well, I just - I didn't make any special effort, so - "

She wriggled underneath him, and he moved so that she could turn over to face him. "Apparently tonight you didn't need to." She reached up to take his cheek in her palm. "I think..." she thought of the two of them at the club, and smiled. "I think it was nice to do something a little different."

He placed a light kiss on the tip of her nose. "Happy anniversary, my darling."


	11. Chapter 11: January 1920

_AN: We're circling to early 1920 for a little backstory and family-of-origin drama. I wanted to fill in some of Tom's background and address what his extended family might think of his choice of bride. _

_Just to get us oriented in the timeline: Sybil is in the first trimester of her pregnancy and they have recently announced it to their families._

Early January 1920

They'd both been quiet since they arrived home. It was their habit to talk over the day that had just passed, whether they'd spent it together or apart. But tonight Tom seemed to be out of words, and Sybil could not think of anything she wanted to say either.

She sat at the dressing table, performing her nighttime routine automatically. After a few moments she noticed that Tom had not yet turned a page in his book. Either he was really taking his time to digest a passage, or else he was as preoccupied as she with what had happened earlier.

It had been very upsetting to Sybil, and it still was. She rubbed cream into her face and regarded her husband in the mirror: he was still staring a hole into the page. "Do the rest of your relations really hate me? Your people in Galway?" She asked. That was as good a question to start with as any. Of course she'd known in an abstract way that some of Tom's people took a dim view of his marriage, but she'd not anticipated the fuse would be so short or easily lit.

His body tensed at the sound of her voice, but he met her eyes. "They don't hate you."

She turned on the stool to face him. "It rather seemed as if they do."

The confrontation had occurred at dinner that evening, which they'd had at Mrs. Branson's house in honor of his uncle Eamon, the younger brother of Tom's father. Eamon was in Dublin on unspecified business, which everyone tacitly acknowledged had nothing to do with earning a living. Relatives on both sides of the family were involved with the Volunteers in one capacity or another, but the Galway Bransons were in especially thick.

By now Sybil was used to Tom's relatives and their friends being crusty toward her at first - she recalled a sewing circle she'd attended with Mrs. Branson that had been particularly awkward - but she'd found that she could usually bring them round sooner or later. However, Eamon seemed determined to resist liking her. He'd scowled in obvious disapprobation when Sybil, unable to stomach the smells and raw meat in the kitchen, remained in the parlor while Tom's mother and sisters prepared the meal. When they sat down to dinner he'd watched with eyes like flat black stones as she picked at her food. Kathleen tried to lighten the atmosphere, commenting that she herself had barely been able to swallow a bite until her fifth month, but Eamon was not moved. "No excuse for wasting food," he muttered. "Though I suppose them that's never had to work for it can push it away easily enough." He flicked his gaze at Sybil again. "A shame we've not gotten to see what you can do in the kitchen, Lady Sybil. Or can't you cook?"

The blood rose to Sybil's cheeks, but she smiled at him. "I manage." She nodded across the table at Tom's younger sister. "Orla has been teaching me some of her tricks."

Tom had spoken up then. "Between the two of us we can usually get up a decent enough dinner, Uncle Eamon. We don't go hungry."

"There's a surprise," Eamon quipped, though there was not a trace of a smile on his creased face. "A Brit who doesn't want to starve us all to death." That got a snort out of Michael, Tom's younger brother, though everyone else maintained a tense silence. Michael wasn't particularly political, and his initial shyness of Sybil had given way to puppy love bordering on worship; but at seventeen he would laugh at anything.

Tom, however, was not amused. He glared at his uncle. "Tommy," Eamon said, "you used to have a sense of humor. It was just a bit of a joke." But he glared back, giving as good as he got, and the belligerent set of his mouth gave the lie to his words.

"I don't think it was funny," Tom said stiffly. "You will please apologize to my wife, Uncle Eamon."

"It's fine - " Sybil began, but Eamon had other ideas anyhow.

"Apologize! To a bloody British - "

"I'll thank you not to use that sort of language at my table, Eamon," Mrs. Branson cut in tartly.

"Come now, Martha," Eamon returned. "You know very well what your husband would think of what your son's done."

"It's a good thing he's not here, then. And we've come to a pretty pass when you think you can sit in my house and insult a guest of mine."

Eamon laughed bitterly. "She's a _guest_, all right. And not a welcome one, either - " Tom's chairlegs scraped across the floorboards; after a moment Kathleen's husband Patrick stood as well, though he moved to lay a calming hand on Tom's shoulder. Michael's gaze moved nervously between the three older men.

Kathleen reached over and squeezed Sybil's hands where they twisted together in her lap. "Sybil's part of the family now, Uncle Eamon."

Eamon leaned back in his chair. "Family, my eye," he said rudely. "Jack Branson's turning in his grave at the thought of his son marrying a - " Tom had started to yell then, and Eamon joined him on his feet, and things got rather confused until Martha slammed her hand against the table hard enough to make the water shiver in the glasses.

"That's _enough_!" She cried. "I _will not_ have shouting across my dinner table. If the two of you -" she gestured at the red-faced Tom and Eamon - "feel the need to raise your voices, or anything else, you can go outside."

Eamon had subsided then, but not without muttering that the rest of the family felt the same as him even if they were too lily-livered to say so. The remainder of the meal was eaten in strained silence, the clink of cutlery and glassware painfully audible. Soon after they were done Eamon departed, leaving quick kisses on Kathleen and Orla's cheeks and giving Michael a rough hug. He'd taken leave of Tom with a handshake and a "No offense meant, son."

But now that they were home Sybil wondered what Eamon had meant, if not offense. Certainly there could be no purpose in insulting her other than to allow long-suppressed feeling to escape. Tom was too attached, both to her and to his family, to look at the thing objectively. He couldn't make himself believe anyone - least of all an uncle who had been like a father to him - would dislike Sybil based on _what _she was, rather than _who_.

What he said next only confirmed it. "They don't know you. No one who knew you could possibly hate you."

"Some of them do, then."

"They don't approve of you," he said. "It's not really the same thing."

She cocked her head. "So which ones don't _approve _of me?"

He looked at her doubtfully. "Sybil, it won't make you feel any better to know."

"I don't want to feel better. I want to know who they are, so that I can be especially nice when I see them." She put on a smile; it felt awkward, but it actually did lift her spirits.

"Turn the other cheek, eh?" he marveled. "You are a piece of work, my love."

"I want to know that I've done all I can to make myself agreeable. Then if they still don't like me, it's their problem," she said, shrugging.

Tom smiled. "That sounds like the right attitude to take." He patted the coverlet next to him. "Come here."

She obeyed, turning out the light and nestling in close with his arm round her shoulders. She had already decided not to tell him what his mother had said over the washing-up: that Eamon was right, that Tom's father would have disapproved of Sybil. "But the thing is done," Martha had said, casting a significant look at Sybil's thickening abdomen, "and we've all got to make the best of it."

So she was surprised when Tom's voice came out of the dark with words similar to those his mother had said hours before. "Eamon wasn't wrong, you know. Da would have been wroth at me marrying you, for awhile at least." He chuckled. "But then he wouldn't have wanted me to go to England in the first place. He wasn't the most practical man."

Tom had always been shuttered about his father: before tonight Sybil had known only that John Branson had died young, and that he had been out of the picture well before his death. Now she saw an opening to pry a little. "Was he political?"

Tom snorted. "As political as anyone else holding down a barstool. Oh, he had opinions. Like I said, he would've had views on you and your family." He dropped a kiss on Sybil's head. "He'd have softened up quick enough once he got to know you, though. He was easier than Uncle Eamon, that's for sure."

"But they were close."

"Dunno if I'd say that. Eamon was always the steady one. And apparently they got in some knock-down-drag-outs when they were lads."

Sybil considered before speaking again: she didn't want to poke at anything too tender. "Were you close to him?"

"When I was little. He was great fun to be around sometimes. He'd get in moods where he'd be swinging us around and laughing and singing." Sybil tried to imagine her own father singing anything other than a hymn and couldn't. "But then he'd wake up with a sore head and yell at us if we made noise." Tom sighed. "I never told you I had a brother who died, did I?"

"No, you didn't. Goodness, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, Liam. He only lived a few months. After that happened Da lost his grip on himself, more or less. Just couldn't be bothered. Right after Michael was born was when he finally lit out for good, but by then it was almost a blessing."

How awful, Sybil thought. Her heart ached for her mother-in-law, abandoned with a new baby and four other children, and for Tom, whose childhood had been so abruptly cut off. But she also felt sorry for Tom's long-dead father and his grief too deep to climb out of.

"Uncle Eamon stepped up, though," Tom continued. "Fairly saved us all from starving. Got Kieran his apprenticeship. If it weren't for him I would've had to go into service a lot younger."

"You owe him a lot, then."

"Maybe. But that doesn't mean I'll sit by while he insults my wife."

"I don't want to cause trouble between you and your family," Sybil said.

"You're not the one causing it." Tom hugged her closer. "Anyway, you're my family now. You and the baby."

Sybil thought of the life growing within her. Even though she dealt with the human body every day it still seemed miraculous that inside her there was a tiny person, knitting together into skin and bones and organs, the process completely independent of any conscious effort on her part. By the time Sybil had another birthday that person would be out in the world with only the love of its family to protect it. Unconsciously, she shielded her midsection with her arms. "They can think whatever they like about me, but I hope they won't take it out on our child," she said.

"Me too. Even if some of them never come round I don't think he'll have any lack of people to love him, though."

"_He_? What makes you so sure it's a boy?"

She felt Tom shrug, heard the smile in his voice. "Just a feeling."

"Hmph. You just want naming rights."

"Well, Eamon would be more apt to warm up to a Connor than to a Catherine." He was definitely teasing now. Then he grew serious again. "I mean it, though, Sybil. The two of you are the most important things in the world to me. I'll always be on your side, and I hope you'll be on mine."

"Us against the world, is that how it is?"

"Isn't that how it's always been?"

"So far, I suppose." Eamon's curled lip. Her mother's infrequent letters: _Papa sends his love_, when she knew it wasn't true. "I hope it won't be like that forever." She reached up to kiss him. "But I will be on your side. Always."


	12. Chapter 12: September 1921

_AN: And now, the cricket match! (Or more accurately, events surrounding it.) Obviously, this isn't the same one from canon, since it's a year later and Sybil is alive. But since in this fic Tom was in Dublin in September 1920, he wouldn't have played then._

_I originally planned this chapter pretty much as PWP, but the brOTP crept in. So here's a little Tom/Matthew bonding as well (though not _that _kind of bonding)!_

_Other things to note: I've moved up Mary's pregnancy and the birth of her and Matthew's son a month or so (I believe in the CS he was born in September; here it's August), though he still came a month early. Also, my version of Matthew is able to keep his eyes on the road, so he's still here. :)_

* * *

September 1921

Tom was surprised at how caught up he'd gotten in the match, when he'd never meant to play in the first place. While he worked at Downton he'd avoided the thing like the plague: cricket was one of those institutions that symbolized everything he detested about the English upper class. However, that argument had made about as much headway with his father-in-law as his protest against the morning coat had done with the Dowager Countess, two springs ago.

Sybil had refused to come down on one side or the other, saying that Tom was an adult and could decide for himself. He knew her well enough to know that this meant she thought he should play, but wasn't going to get into a row over it. "Fine, then, I won't do it," he'd decided.

"Only it might soften Papa up a bit," she'd replied. "He does set such great store by the match. But of course it's up to you, darling." And then she'd smiled that false drawing-room smile that still came to her face sometimes, which set his resolve even more firmly against doing what they all wanted. He was piqued that he had to take the decision at all, really. If Sybil hadn't been at Downton so much lately it wouldn't have been a question, but she'd been visiting at least once a week since George was born, and somehow this had given Lord Grantham the idea that Tom would find it just as easy to take three days to go to a bleeding cricket match.

They'd gotten him onto the pitch in the end, though. He hadn't donned whites to please Sybil and it certainly hadn't been for her father: It was Matthew whose appeal had swayed him.

He'd come to Liverpool on business the week before and invited Tom for a meal and to catch up. Once they'd established that Tom was getting along well enough, Emma and George were growing nicely and their respective wives were in perfect health, Matthew had just happened to bring up the match.

"I know exactly how you feel, old chap," he'd said. "Do you know, I wouldn't let Molesley dress me when I first arrived at Downton?"

"Really?" Matthew wasn't the old-money toff that the others were, but in Tom's eyes he fit right in.

"Really. I made the poor man stand in the corner of the room while I got ready. He'd practically jump to hand me things."

"I don't see what any of this has to do with cricket, though," Tom had said.

"The point is, I thought Molesley could find a better use for his time, but he didn't see any reason to change. He's part of a way of thinking in which traditions are of great value. And you are too, if you think about it. Take the mass, for instance. You don't strike me as someone who's particularly pious."

Tom had chuckled. "No."

"Yet I remember you insisted on going last Christmas, even with the snow."

"That was right after we'd arrived back in England and I was rattled. I suppose I needed a bit of home." Tom would have preferred not to think about that time.

"Exactly," Matthew had said. "The familiarity of the ritual was what gave you comfort."

Tom had rolled his eyes. "So cricket is a religion now?"

Matthew had shrugged. "It's important to them. It's one thing that stays the same, even if everything else is different. And in the scheme of things, which would you rather be rid of: exploitative working conditions, say, or the yearly cricket match?"

Tom couldn't help grinning. Matthew had him there.

"And besides," Matthew had said, "if you don't play, Cousin Robert is going to expect me to carry the house team. And I'm afraid I'm rubbish at cricket. I'll never hear the end of it if I let the side down."

"I've never played in my life," Tom had warned.

Matthew had smiled triumphantly and finished his pint. "Don't worry. I'll be happy to teach you the main points."

-ooo-

It hadn't been so bad after all, Tom thought. Certainly nowhere near as uncomfortable as wearing that monkey suit to Sybil's sisters' weddings. The catch he'd taken had been mostly beginner's luck, but afterwards Robert had actually shaken Tom's hand, which was quite remarkable given that the man had barely said two words to him since he and Sybil had announced they were moving to Liverpool. And it had been nice to take a couple of days away from the grind, to get a bit of sunshine and fresh air and exercise and wave at Sybil on the sidelines where she was holding Emma up to cheer for her da.

And now Tom was done in. He knew he'd be sore tomorrow: he'd used muscles this afternoon he didn't know he had. Hot running water might be a perk of the oppressor, but just now he was more than ready to immerse himself in a bathtubful of it.

He'd made his slightly creaky way up the stairs to Sybil's old room, and had just set her bathroom tub to fill while he undressed when he heard her door open and close. He went out into the bedroom to find his wife there with a strange look on her face. Disappointment? Nerves? He couldn't tell. As soon as she saw him, it changed to a relieved smile.

"Oh, good," she said, "you haven't changed yet."

"Why, is something wrong?" His heart was much quicker to leap up into his throat since Drumgoole. "Where's Emma?"

"No, nothing's wrong. Emma's napping in the nursery. The poor thing was worn out with all the excitement."

"She's not the only one," Tom said, collapsing into an armchair.

Sybil chuckled. "Well done today, by the way. Papa hasn't stopped talking about that out you caught."

"So I'm back in his good graces, then?" Tom lifted his head slightly, then dropped it back. "If I ever was."

"Well, you're definitely in mine." She approached to stand over him, and now Tom recognized the expression she'd had on. It was lust. "I like these clothes on you," she murmured. She leaned over to adjust his collar, her fingertips brushing against the side of his neck. Her hand drifted to his forearm below his rolled-up shirtsleeve. "You got a bit of color today."

"Aye." She had as well, despite the hat she'd worn. Just a few freckles on her nose. He liked them. She sat in his lap and his arms moved to surround her as her lips landed on his; for a few moments he forgot his aching muscles, until the sound of splashing water registered on him. "I'd best turn off the faucet," he muttered.

She jumped up. "Let me. You're exhausted." The smile she gave him then made Tom doubt that a bath and a nap would be happening for him anytime soon, if Sybil had anything to say about it. He heard the water being turned off and a second later she was back, still wearing that smile. She did not resume her place in his lap, but pushed in between his knees. "Are you _awfully _tired?" She asked, stroking the hair off his forehead, her voice husky.

"Completely knackered," he answered with a smirk.

Sybil smirked back. "Then you must let me take care of you." She moved her hand to the back of his head and he felt her nails teasing his scalp, her fingers massaging his neck muscles.

"Mm." He sighed. "That's... that's wonderful, love." She'd moved closer and was rubbing against him through his trousers as if by accident, though he knew very well it wasn't. She leaned over to kiss him, and with the gentle pressure of her mouth on his and her hands on his shoulders, pushed him against the back of the chair. "Sit back," she whispered. "Close your eyes." He did.

She dropped small fluttery kisses on his forehead and cheekbones, moving down toward his chin, her lips alighting on the corner of his mouth. Then she perched on his thigh again and kissed him deeply, their mouths opening. He got lost in the softness of her lips for a while, his sensations heightened by the combination of fatigue and relaxation and his eyes being closed.

She buried her face in his neck. "You smell good," she said. "Like sunshine."

And sweat, probably. "I need a bath." His speech dragged a little, languid.

"Later," Sybil said, and undid his top shirt button. She kissed the newly uncovered skin, darting her tongue into the space between his collarbones and reaching to untuck the shirt at his waist. Tom was suddenly intensely grateful for his marriage, for his wife, who was never shy about their love life. Another woman would have let him put her off: not Sybil. He stroked her hair while her hands slid up his chest under the shirt and jumper. She circled a nipple with her fingertips, tweaked it gently, and he shivered.

Then she was unbuttoning his trousers. His eyes flew open to catch her looking at him mischievously. "No peeking," she admonished.

"My, Mrs. Branson, you're forward today."

"I am enjoying my husband in his cricket whites," she said a trifle defensively. She brushed her fingers down over his eyelids. "Now close your eyes and let me have my way with you." Her hand left his face and then, a moment later, slipped into his trousers, moving expertly. "Mm, _he_ seems lively enough."

Tom could only groan in response, and then in disappointment when her hand moved away. Need was coiling in him, overruling his fatigue, but he made himself follow Sybil's directive to sit back and keep his eyes closed. His patience was soon rewarded: he felt her settle in front of him, tug and push aside his clothing, and a second later her mouth enveloped him. Even though he'd known what she was about to do the sensation still shocked him, the reality better than the anticipation could ever be. He gripped the arms of the chair, his nails digging into the upholstery. He couldn't have opened his eyes if he'd wanted to.

Sybil knew how to stretch things out when she wanted - Tom kept several such occasions on file in his brain, for the times she was away - but now she made short work of him. After a brief interval, Tom's head pressed back against the chair and he made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. She separated from him with a last delicious swirl of her tongue, then tucked him back into his trousers and came up to nestle on his lap again, winding one arm around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank you," he mumbled. "I love you." She gave him a small, soft kiss on the lips in reply.

He drowsed for a little; he wasn't sure how long. No more than a few minutes. Then he opened his eyes and glanced down at Sybil. She was still lying on his shoulder, staring into space. All at once he felt full of energy, and tightened his grip on her to scoop her up and stand with her in his arms. She let out a surprised whoop. "Tom!"

"Now it's your turn," he said, giving her a look that he hoped would remind her why she hadn't let him get into the bath.

"It's all right. We have had a long day, after all," she said, but her cheeks were already pink and she couldn't keep her lips from curving.

"You're not very convincing, love."

"But I thought I was taking care of you."

"Ah, but this is a marriage of equals." He nuzzled her ear.

She giggled as he set her at the edge of the bed and put his arms around her. "I don't know what's gotten into me," she said. "But you've really no idea how handsome you look in those clothes." She moved her hands up and slid them over his forearms.

"We can leave them on a while if you like." He grinned. "I shouldn't think you'll need yours any longer, though." He grasped at her skirt, pulling the hem up her legs.

"Down, boy," she laughed, and slapped his hands away playfully. "We don't need you tearing another set of my drawers." She spun away from him, but captured one of his hands and brought it to her lips. He thought she would just kiss it; he gasped when she took two of his fingers into her mouth, sucking on them like she'd done with another part of him earlier. Her eyes never left his, and he lost any doubt he'd had that he would be ready again when the time came.

She slid his fingers out of her mouth and kissed the tips. "I'll be right back." She went into the top drawer of the bureau and took out a small drawstring bag. "Don't move. And don't you _dare _take anything off." She walked backwards into the bathroom, her eyes smoldering at him until the door closed on her. Tom crossed his arms and leaned on the bed to wait.

It opened a few minutes later and there she stood framed in it, a sly smile on her lips, naked as the day she was born. She's a bloody goddess, Tom thought. They were not newlyweds anymore, but the day he wasn't stirred at the sight of his wife's naked body was the day they'd be putting him in the ground. And God, all he wanted right now was her underneath him, moaning as he moved inside her. With Sybil gone so much lately, there hadn't been nearly enough time for that.

She walked up to him and their arms went around each other and they kissed unhurriedly, but there was passion in it. Straight away her hands went up under his shirt again, and he let his wander down to her perfect arse and give it a squeeze. She yelped, and then gasped as he pulled her flush with him, grinding against her.

"Oh... my," she murmured. Her eyes were liquid and blue-black, her lips parted. They looked swollen, so lush that Tom had to kiss them again and again, to suck on them like sweet fruit. They maneuvered onto the bed and she pulled off his jumper, clumsy in her eagerness, so it got hung up and tousled his hair even more than it already was. Sybil was hovering over him, working on his shirt buttons, but he couldn't resist her breasts in his face and pulled her down so he could take one into his mouth. He wanted to drown himself in her smooth white skin, smelling nothing but her, tasting nothing but her. She moaned at the lashing of his tongue on her nipple, but he wanted more. He needed to bring her to her peak, almost as acutely as he'd needed to reach his own before.

When he touched her she whimpered and thrust herself toward his hand. "Oh, Sybil," he breathed. His slippery fingers found her clitoris and began to tease it. She pressed her mouth against the side of his neck to muffle her cries.

"Tom," she said in a strangled voice as he caressed a spot inside her that made her breath come in ragged panting gasps. "Yes, oh _God _- " she fumbled desperately at his trousers, still undone - "Tom, I want - "

He wanted the same thing, so much. Together they managed to get his remaining clothes off and she sank down on him, watching his face from under her eyelashes. She sat upright, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, and Tom moved his hand back between her legs and it didn't take long before she was bucking on top of him, head thrown back and eyes shut, groans escaping her mashed-together lips. He loved the way she looked when she came: she gave herself over to it so completely, his beautiful Sybil.

Once her main crisis was past Sybil crumpled down onto him and her movements became languid. "I do love you so much," she whispered into his ear. Every part of her body rubbed against his, but slowly, and when his second orgasm crept up it seemed to come not just from his cock but from all the places she touched, radiating from her through him. When it was over they lay depleted, still tangled together, him sliding lazy fingertips up and down her back. Finally, with a sigh, Sybil pushed herself up and padded into the bathroom. Water swished in the tub.

"Your bath's gone cold," she called. He heard the gurgle of the drain: she'd pulled the plug.

He smiled but didn't open his eyes. "Could you draw me another one, love?"

"What am I, your maid?"

"Oh, come now. I took care of you, didn't I?"

"That you did." Her voice was husky again. "You usually do, darling."

"I try to do."

The tub had finished draining and now Sybil turned the taps on again. She came out, still naked, to take his hands and pull him up to standing. "I'm afraid you're going to have to share, though," she said. "I'm feeling like I need a bath as well."

His smile widened. "My love, I'm always happy to share with you."


	13. Chapter 13: November 1922

_AN: In honor of Mother's Day (in the US), here's a little bit of sugar. :)_

* * *

November 1922

Much like Sybil's grandmother, her daughter had not yet mastered the concept of the weekend. Emma rose with the sun that Sunday chirping like a finch, never mind that her father and mother were utterly exhausted. Sybil had spent half the night with her head over the chamber pot - in this pregnancy as in the last, the term "morning sickness" had proven laughably over-precise as to what time of day it struck - and the other half sleeping only fitfully.

"She's awake," Sybil groaned to her husband, hearing Emma bumping round the front room chattering to her dolly.

Tom's head was still firmly lodged half underneath the pillow. "Mmphf."

Sybil rolled over and pushed herself up to a sitting position. Immediately she flopped back down with a groan, fighting the wave of nausea. Any day now, she thought, this can be over. She was almost looking forward to bed rest, if it meant she didn't have to feel like this.

"All right, love, I'm up, I'm up," Tom mumbled, rolling clumsily off the side of the bed. He'd been taking the first shift on Sundays since it became obvious that their efforts at making Emma a sibling had been successful.

"Thank you, darling," Sybil said weakly as Tom shut the door behind him.

Emma was normally quite well-behaved for a two-and-a-half-year-old, but she was in rare form this morning. She seemed determined to talk and sing and ask every question she could think of, all at high volume and while banging against something.

"Emma, love, we must be quiet so we don't disturb Mumma," Sybil heard Tom explain with infinite patience. "Mumma isn't feeling well this morning and she needs her rest."

"But... I... want-to-_see-her_!" the child crowed even more loudly. It sounded like she was bouncing on the sofa. She chanted in time with the creaking sofa springs, shouting at the top of her piping voice: "I-want-_Mumma_! I-want-_Mumma_!" She jumped to the floor with a thump. After a moment the springs continued wheezing and she started to sing tunelessly: "Iwantmummamummamumma, Iwantmummamummamumma..."_ Thump! _Wheeze. Creak. "Iwantmummamummamumma, Iwantmummamummamumma..."

Sybil rolled toward the edge of the bed, smiling. Poor Tom certainly had his work cut out for him. She sat up and waited for the wave of dizziness to pass before getting out of bed and walking over to open the bedroom door.

"_Emma!_" Tom's sharpened voice immediately preceded a rather messier-sounding _thump_, followed by a short, heavy silence and then a drawn-out wail. And another. "Well, that's what _happens _when you jump on the furniture!" Tom bellowed, making Emma cry even harder.

"Emma," she called, but her voice was hoarse and drowned out by Emma's crying, now fading to hiccuping sobs, and Tom's attempts to soothe her.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you'd think we had to amputate," he muttered. "You're fine, love. There, all better."

"Kiss it!" Emma commanded.

"Emma, love, I've already - "

"_Kiss it, _Da!"

"Fine, fine." Sybil smiled to hear him smack a kiss onto the wounded body part.

"Emma!" Sybil called again, louder this time. She was rewarded with the pitter-patter, or rather the thump-thump-thump, of little feet barrelling down the hall.

"Mumma! You awake!" Emma hurled her little body through the door and into Sybil's arms. Tom appeared at the other end of the hall, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

"Sorry, love," he said to Sybil before trying again with his daughter. "Emma, shall we go into the kitchen? I'll let you crack the eggs."

Even this tempting offer was not enough to loosen Emma's grip on her mother. "It's all right," Sybil told Tom with a rueful smile. "It's not as if I was getting any sleep." She dropped a kiss on Emma's head, inhaling the clean, sweet scent of the child's hair. "We'll just have a bit of a cuddle, won't we?"

Tom eyed her in concern. "Well, if you're sure." Sybil nodded. "I'll just start on breakfast, then. You want any?"

Her stomach flipped over at the thought of sausages and beans and eggs, congealing in a pool of grease. "Maybe just bread and tea for me." He threw her a sympathetic look and vanished into the kitchen.

Sybil got back into bed with Emma and tried to hold her, but she was having none of it and began bouncing on the mattress. "Now, Emma, if you want to be in the bed with me, you must sit quietly. Do you want to be here?"

"Yes!" Emma kept jumping.

"What did I just say you must do, then?"

"Sit quiet-wyyyy!" She bounced down on her backside, rolled onto her front, and crawled over the bed to Sybil, falling all over her like a puppy. "I wanna be a baby."

"All right, darling, I'll rock you, then," Sybil answered, trying to maneuver Emma into a more comfortable position. "Here we are - no, not on Mumma's tummy, darling, that hurts - there. All cosy." Sybil tucked the covers around both of them and wrapped Emma in her arms, rocking gently back and forth.

Emma's hand drifted toward her face. "I'm the baby." She put the two middle fingers into her mouth and grinned around them.

Sybil smoothed Emma's brown curls off her forehead. She felt an ache in her midsection that had nothing to do with morning sickness: Emma was getting so big, so _childlike_. The infantine roundness in her cheeks seemed much less pronounced than it had even a few months before.

Sybil cleared the catch from her throat. "Would you like to hear about when you were a baby?" She asked, and Emma nodded. She was endlessly fascinated with stories of what she'd eaten and what her first words had been and how she'd learnt to walk. She especially liked to hear about her journey from Ireland - "Me and Mumma went on a big boat?" - and Sybil had told her the edited version often enough that it almost seemed like the whole truth sometimes.

Now, though, Sybil went back further. "When you were born, you were a tiny baby just like Cousin Violet." Mary had recently given birth again, to a girl this time. "You had teeny-weeny hands and feet and your nails were no bigger than lentils."

Emma took her fingers out of her mouth to inspect the nails, which were a good deal bigger than that now. "I 'member," she told her mother solemnly.

"You do? That's quite a good memory you've got." Emma's head bobbed up and down like a balloon on a string. "So do you remember the hospital in Ireland?"

Emma's little face screwed up in concentration. "Umm... yes," she replied, but with less certainty this time.

Sybil raised a skeptical eyebrow, but let this pass. "Everything was all white, the sheets and the doctor's coat and the caps of the nurses," she went on, "and it was very clean. We'd been at home waiting for you to come but the week before it was time, I went into hospital."

"You went to hoppaspittal?"

"Yes, so the doctor could look after us both."

"Who take you?"

"Who took me? Why, your father did."

Emma glanced toward the sizzling noise coming from the doorway as if expecting Tom to materialize there, but the only thing that came in was the sound and smell of frying meat. She had several more questions before the story could proceed. Where had Da slept (at home); Was the hospital at home (no); Had Grandpapa been there too (he had not). "But your Gran, your father's mama, came to visit me, and your da was there whenever he wasn't working or sleeping," Sybil said. "So we waited and waited and waited, and finally it was time for you to arrive."

Sybil fell silent, remembering that anxious time. Dr Phelps had assured her and Tom that she was in good health, doing as well as could be expected. Her being in hospital so soon was only a precaution in case the baby came a little early or Sybil began to exhibit any worrying symptoms. Still, it had all been rather frightening and the environment didn't help, with its constant noise and light and nurses popping in to check on her and the rules about visiting hours.

"But I'm not a _visitor_," Tom had protested, when they'd told him it was time to leave on the first night. "I'm her husband." He'd settled himself more firmly in the hard bedside chair as if he meant to stay there until someone carried him out.

The young nurse had fidgeted, _I'm just the messenger_ practically written across her forehead. Sybil didn't know her, or anyone else there: they were in different hospital to the one where she had worked. But she could sympathize with the difficulty of enforcing hospital policy on recalcitrant family members, so she'd turned to her husband and said, "Tom, darling, it wouldn't be fair on the other patients for you to stay. Do you think they'll like having to share their room with a strange man?" And she'd given him a conspiratorial smile, as much to convince him that she was in a perfectly robust state of mind as anything else.

She'd been terribly lonely once he left, of course, but the first night was the worst and she'd gotten through it all right. She'd slept with the copy of _The Age of Innocence _he'd given her to while away some of the long hours of the past weeks, fingering its smooth binding whenever tears pricked at the backs of her eyelids. Eventually she'd opened her eyes to find that it was morning.

"The very first thing you did," Sybil continued, "was to scream so loudly that it startled the doctor. And he said, 'Mother Mary, what a pair of lungs she's got!' And that's how I knew you were a girl."

"Why I screamed?"

"Well, I imagine you were a bit unhappy. You'd been somewhere nice and warm and dark, and all of a sudden you were cold and it was too bright and there were people looking at you. But the nurse wrapped you up warmly and gave you to me, and you soon stopped crying after that." Sybil recalled how Emma - who hadn't been _Emma _then, as they'd not settled on a name for several days - had quieted at the sound of her voice, seeming to recognize it. The little mottled-pink face had relaxed and the baby had opened its murky blue eyes wide, attempting to focus on Sybil's face. Such apparent trust had triggered something like terror in Sybil, the realization that the being she held in her inexpert arms would live or die on her actions and _Dear God am I really ready for this -_ but then she'd noticed how the baby furrowed its brow in such a Tom-like way already, and alarm had given way to wonder. They'd made a whole new person together, she and Tom. It hardly seemed possible.

"What I did after I stopped crying?" Emma asked.

"You had a look about," Sybil said. "You were a curious little nipper even then." She gave Emma a squeeze, making her giggle. "And I held you and fed you and after a little while your father came in." How large and strong Tom's hand had seemed, cradling his daughter's head. He hadn't been able to stop smiling. Sybil had looked into his shining eyes and understood that it wasn't just _her _that was responsible for this child, it was _them_, and that had driven away any lingering doubts. "And we felt we'd known you always and only been waiting until then to meet you, and while we were talking about what a wonderful baby you were, you fell asleep."

Emma giggled again. A noise at the door made Sybil look up; Tom was leaning against the doorframe in his dressing gown, smiling from one to the other of them. "Don't mind me," he said, waving the wooden spoon he held. "I'm enjoying the story."

"Where I sleep in hoppaspittal?" Emma asked. When her mother didn't answer immediately, her voice took on a plaintive note and she tugged at the collar of Sybil's nightgown to stop her looking at Tom. "Mumma... where?"

"In the nursery, darling. With the other babies." Sybil had watched the nurse carry her daughter away with mingled misgivings and relief; she'd been so tired that she'd slept like a stone the rest of the night and into the morning. Tom, on the other hand, had refused to go home and passed a restless night in the waiting room, pestering anyone he saw in a white coat or nurse's uniform to go and make sure that his wife and child still lived.

Emma was silent a moment, seeming to ruminate. Then she furrowed her brow. "Where I was before I got born? In your tummy?"

"Yes, you were in my tummy. You grew there until you were big enough to come out." Sybil had been adamant that they would tell Emma no fairy stories about cabbage patches or the stork. In any case, they'd have to give an explanation for Sybil's expanding girth soon enough.

She turned this over. "How I got out of your tummy?"

At least she hadn't asked how she'd gotten _in_. Sybil took a breath, preparing to launch into something convoluted about the birth canal, but Tom chose that moment to announce that breakfast was getting cold and any little girls who wanted sausages had better hightail it to the table. Emma was off the bed and down the hall like a shot, awkward questions forgotten. Tom shot Sybil a self-satisfied smile and followed.

Sybil lay back on the pillows, closing her eyes and sighing. It was lovely to rest a moment, but she felt something odd. A half-familiar tickle in her stomach. It took her a few seconds to realize what it was.

"Tom?" She called. "Darling, did you make enough sausages for me to have some? I think I'm hungry."


End file.
